


Marked

by FireFleshAndBlood



Series: Marking [2]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Breathplay, Gaslighting, Implied Non-Con, M/M, Mpreg, Nosebleed, canon level violence and gore, hostage, psychiatric care
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-03
Updated: 2014-04-05
Packaged: 2017-12-17 12:40:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 39,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/867659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FireFleshAndBlood/pseuds/FireFleshAndBlood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will has left an indelible mark on Hannibal. This is not necessarily a good thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Declawed

**Author's Note:**

> Hello. It's time for more Hannibal A/B/O porn with a lot more plot. Please heed the warnings. There are some plot related ones that will appear as new chapters are added but I don't want to spoil the (nasty) surprises in store. Suffice to say if you found the canon violence problematic, you won't want to read this fic. 
> 
> Consider this a staunch AU to canon. 
> 
> Thanks for all the encouragement on the first part of this fic series, Marks. If you haven't, you might want to read that first to understand what is happening in this fic but it's not totally necessary. 
> 
> (if you find any glaring errors in the text below, please let me know)
> 
> Reach me on [dreamwidth.](http://firefleshandblood.dreamwidth.org/)

 

 I

While on the beat in New Orleans, Will Graham had faced down cold-hearted murderers, violent drug addicts and gang members intent on making him their latest victim just for entering the scene of their crimes. But at the present moment, he found himself unable to move while sitting outside of a drugstore in Wolf Trap, Virginia.

 

_Get out of the car,_ he thinks, _buy the damn test. And see the reality of what you've done._

 

It was 10:30pm and the fluorescent lighting grated his tired eyes. He walked the aisles first, picking up dog biscuits that were fortuitously on sale, considered cheap tissues until he reasoned he had far too many unopened in his pantry already. Then grabbed the dreaded test that was next to the condoms and after-heat pills (too late for that, his thoughts whispered to him treacherously) and a chocolate bar to soothe his no doubt frazzled nerves after the result he was already sure would appear.

 

“That'll be $12.35,” the cashier said.

 

She was an alpha that was probably half his age, plain with dark hair. Vaguely she reminded him of Abigail, the same quirky teenaged mannerisms and relaxed confidence. She looked at him impassively, of course dozens of people bought these tests all the time. He was one in probably hundreds in the past few months, it wasn't even worth noting the one small purchase that would change his entire world. His head throbbed and a sharp pain made its way down the top of his head into his sinuses. He rubbed the bridge of his nose.

 

“Sorry,” Will said, “this too.”

 

He set one of the travel sized nasal sprays on the counter, used to dampen scents particularly irritating to omegas with high hormone levels. He would undoubtedly need it in the months to come.

 

When Will arrived home his dogs were extremely happy to see him, they crowded around his legs as he struggled to put the small bag on the counter and pet each one individually to their satisfaction. The small slice of normality was desperately needed to counter what Will knew he had to do in order to be satisfied.

 

After treats were dispersed and his dogs were sufficiently rubbed down, he took the test and went into the bathroom. He followed the instructions as closely as possible from the included leaflet.

 

He received his results and stared at them for a few minutes. Immediately, he repeated the ritual again just to be sure.

 

“Shit,” he said.

 

A dog whined at the door and he kicked it open, letting in a small fox terrier to sit at his feet.

 

“Positive,” Will mumbled.

 

He slammed his hand on the sink in frustration. The dog at his feet whined.

 

“It's okay Buttercup,” he said to the skittish terrier, “not your fault.”

 

Will slowly sank down onto the cold bathroom tile beside Buttercup and pressed his face into her fur, breathing in the comforting dog smell. Soon after, a small gathering of dogs would file into the bathroom and wind their way around Will trying to comfort him, confused by his distress.

 

The same night Will slept restlessly in his bed he had terrible dreams. Dreams about death, about Abigail dying in his arms, about the murderers he saw when he closed his eyes in the waking world and about Cheryl White and her terrible revenge. He woke up to his sheets soaked with his cold, clammy sweat and a pounding headache, the scents in his nose sticky with blood. He tore open the analgesic he had bought from the drugstore and sent a few shots up his nose, it didn't help much. He wasn't able to fall asleep again until an hour before his alarm went off.

 

It was not a good morning and it didn't improve when Will received a call from Jack on his day off that a possible ripper victim had been found.

 

“I need confirmation,” Jack had said over the phone, “to be sure.”

 

Will had been awake for some hours, he had run the dogs around the yard in the cold winter morning. But now he was nursing a wicked headache, brought on by tiredness or nerves he couldn't tell. He had wanted a day to sit with the knowledge he was pregnant – the very phrase gave him a near anxiety attack thinking about it – before facing anyone else.

 

“Think I'm coming down with something,” Will said, “hope it's not contagious.

 

“Are you coming or not?” Jack said.

 

“I'll be there in an hour and a half.”

 

Despite his better judgement, he'd look.

 

“It wasn't the ripper,” Will said.

 

It had only taken him a few minutes with the man who had his throat opened up and played like an instrument to tell. The concert hall had been impressive to say the least, and his terrible visions just as awe inspiring. He wanted to be sick when he saw the phantom image of Garrett Jacob Hobbs complimenting him on his virtuoso performance.

 

“Who's he playing for?” Jack asked him.

 

“I don't know,” Will said, “But this is a man who doesn't usually perform.”

 

His headache blossomed. The team were crowding him, he wanted out of there as soon as he could manage.

 

Katz was eyeing him, she could probably smell the slight hint of sickness on him somewhere. He was sweating and felt out of sorts, likely symptoms of a noxious flu in the making.

 

“You okay?” Katz asked.

 

Will nodded, it hurt and he flinched visibly.

 

“Think I've got a cold,” he said, “ran with the dogs this morning.”

 

“Bad idea with a head cold,” she said.

 

Will smelled the sharp bite of her alpha smell mixing with the alpha scent of the killer. The two smells melded until he could hardly tell the difference between the blood from the beta's body and the living skin of the team around him. The throb in Will's sinuses bloomed into a full blown stab of pain.

 

He was surrounded by alphas. Zeller, Katz and Jack and they were circling around him while they examined the area for more evidence. Will immediately wanted to throw up. He had to get out, the emergency exit glowed with a promise of cold winter air to clear out his head. He staggered, became disoriented and crashed right into Zeller on his way out.

 

“Hey Graham, watch it,” Zeller said, “not all of us have _special_ before our agent title.”

 

Zeller tried to push him aside.

 

“Get away from me!” it might have been a shout or a groan Will couldn't tell.

 

There was a scuffle. Will caught Zeller in the shoulder, Zeller was quick to retaliate. Years of police experience had Will ducking and moving to the right, Zeller's FBI training had him compensating and nailing Will in the nose.

 

It was the most excruciating punch Will had ever received.

 

_Sinus infection_ , Will thought blandly, Zeller couldn't hit that hard. He was a poor fighter.

 

“What the hell are you two doing!”

 

Jack's voice assailed his ears like shots fired from a gun.

 

Will pushed his way to the exit and stumbled into the dark hallway. When the door shut closed he might as well have been plunged into a disorienting darkness not unlike a deep, floor-less abyss. He threw up in a corner. He smelled blood. Not two seconds later he was grabbed by some of the team, a few unfamiliars he had only met in passing. They escorted him outside and supervised him as his nose bled all over the snow like a sick mockery of a crime scene. One of the officers handed him tissues from his pocket. Will hoped he remembered to thank him before he bled all over his shoes.

 

The day was only getting worse. Will sat alone inside of an FBI armoured van with a kleenex to his nose and his head tipped slightly back. The small satisfaction he could glean from witnessing Zeller getting a dressing down because he punched an omega in the face, wasn't going to make up for the chat he would have to have with Jack later.

 

However, when the van door opened it wasn't Jack but a slightly put out Price who climbed into the seat beside him.

 

They observed one another for a few moments until Price sighed and raised his hands in a placating gesture.

 

“Don't kill the messenger,” he said, “I'm just a nice, neutral party here to talk.”

 

“About what,” Will said, it was muffled behind the tissue but Price probably got the point.

 

“Why you hit Zeller,” Price said, “not that every one of us doesn't want to do that at least once a day.”

 

Will managed a laugh until it hurt too much and he had to press against his nose to get the pain to stop again.

 

“I didn't mean to hit him,” Will said, carefully angling his head so he wouldn't bleed more over himself than he already had, “I was being crowded. I panicked.”

 

Price sighed again, and looked everywhere but at Will.

 

“Right,” Price said, “do you know you're-”

 

Will made a non committal noise. This wasn't how he wanted everyone to find out.

 

“There aren't any other omegas on the team,” Price reminded him, “our noses are sharper. It's hard not to notice when you're bleeding all over the place.”

 

Will closed his eyes briefly. The tissues were growing stickier by the minute, he really needed a new batch.

 

“I won't tell anyone,” Price said, “Really, I'm surprised you waited this long to have one with surrogates lining up these days.”

 

Will glared at him. This wasn't what he wanted to talk about _ever_ , let alone when he was trying to stop fluids from being expelled from his face.

 

“Surrogates are an omega's best friend,” Prince went on, “show up for birthdays and holidays and leave the hard part to the betas. Anyway, I'm sure you have some kind of a plan.”

 

Price watched him carefully for a while. Will tried very hard not to punch him, too.

 

“You don't have a plan,” Price said, “okay. I have kids myself, if you want to talk, we can talk. Otherwise it's none of my business what you do.”

 

Price meant well, even if he was supremely irritating and Will knew that he would keep his word if pressed.

 

“I don't want Jack to know,” Will muttered.

 

“Not until..?,” Price prompted.

 

“It becomes obvious,” Will said.

 

“Does the Dad know?” Price asked curiously.

 

Will didn't say anything.

 

“Okay then, Mr. Mysterious,” Price said, “but take it from me, it's better if you get paternity out of the way early.”

 

A hard knock on the window and Jack was beckoning Price outside. Will sat wretchedly and watched Price and Jack have an animated discussion until Jack crawled into the van. Mercifully, he was carrying a whole box of tissues. Will busied himself stopping up the blood while Jack watched him with heavy scrutiny.

 

“So you panicked because of a cold,” Jack said, “and started a fight with a member of the team. I should write you up for disorderly conduct.”

 

It was a fair assessment. Will probably at least deserved both a warning and a write-up but he knew that's not what he was going to get.

 

Will frowned, “I'm sick. Probably a sinus infection. I told you on the phone.”

 

“You need a doctor,” Jack said, “or a psychiatrist?”

 

Will's heart fluttered until he realized what Jack's question actually meant.

 

“A doctor,” Will said bluntly, “some antibiotics. A day or two at my house without a murder scene.”

 

Jack let out a long, tired sigh.

 

“I don't want to break you Will,” Jack said, “you broken?”

 

“I'm not breaking” Will enunciated, “I'm just sick.”

 

Jack frowned, “sick or not, you better get all the aggression out of your system before you show up for work next time.”

 

That was the end of their conversation but Will knew it wasn't really, it was only the beginning. He would be under more serious scrutiny from Jack from now on. Will vowed not to let himself get caught up again at a crime scene. He could still do his job, he could still be useful. He wasn't fragile.

 

At the medical centre on the way home, he received a prescription for antibiotics and a warning not to get in any more fist fights until his sinus infection cleared up. His doctor was a beta, an older woman who was an utmost professional. Doctor Magnolia, like the flowers that grew in the south. Jack had recommended her when he had first moved to Wolf Trap because she was conscientious and had come from his neck of the woods originally. Her accent and bedside manner comforted him, even when he wished it wasn't such a poignant reminder of a life he had left behind when he had turned 18 and had enrolled in college.

 

“If the pain doesn't ease up in the next three weeks,” she said, “come back and we'll make sure there's no swelling.”

 

Will hated going to the doctor's but he was probably going to have to get used to it, at least for the next nine months. He would need a decent gynaecologist, perhaps Hannibal could recommend one to him. He almost started laughing but stopped himself. No need to have his GP doubt his sanity too.

 

“You had a scent related trauma,” she said, “and a bad heat. You're pregnant and on medication. I'd appreciate it if you stopped by more often.”

 

“I'll make an effort,” Will said.

 

He got down off the examining table, relieved by his prognosis.

 

“I'm serious,” she said, “you're at risk for the scent membrane to swell. You don't want it to rupture, not in your condition.”

 

“What's my condition,” Will said tetchily.

 

“An empathy disorder,” the doctor said, “stress from a very difficult and taxing job, if your membrane ruptures the pain will be excruciating, it could have unpredictable effects on your visualization and scent relationships. You might not even know who you are or where you are after it happens.”

 

Will swallowed thickly. She had just described his worst nightmare as a possible physical reality.

 

“It won't happen,” she said, attempting to reassure him, “if you take care of yourself.”

 

“I'll try,” he said.

 

He hoped it wouldn't be an issue.

 

“Take the pills consistently,” she reminded him on his way out of her office, “or I'll take you to the hospital for an IV myself.”

 

Will went home and had a restless sleep with his dogs. He took his pills in the morning, he called in sick. He watched the snow fall slowly outside of his kitchen window and the blue light of an early morning colour the room in a melancholy feeling. Will acknowledged that there was a very small clump of cells growing in his lower abdomen that would eventually become a whole human being. He hoped he wouldn't screw them up too much but considered if they had him for a mother they were probably already doomed. He wasn't sure about the other half of their genes, besides that they were much better off for Hannibal's influence than his own.

 

He thought about his own awkward and lonely teenage years and hoped he wouldn't have to watch his own child repeat them.

 

He warmed up hot water, drank some herbal tea Hannibal left for him ages ago to help him sleep and played with the dogs. It was well after noon hour when he began hearing noises in the fields.

 

A strange sound, like a wounded animal crying out.

 

Will's dogs were peacefully strewn around him watching him wrestle with a boat motor he had stashed in his closet for lonely evenings, as old habits died hard and comforting actions even harder. They hadn't moved when the sound echoed through his room. A shiver of pain went through Will's injured nose. He smelled blood on the air, the kind that only came from an animal.

 

Perhaps inviting Alana Bloom to help him chase phantom dogs had been ill advised, but he had needed someone stable. Someone who wasn't wrapped up in complicated emotions. A third party required to listen to his confessions.

 

Alana had offered him advice, “You need to talk this out. About your state of mind, about everything.”

 

They had walked across the field near his house and almost to the woods in the afternoon sun. Alana had looked so beautiful against the dead winter fields, he had wanted to kiss her. Perhaps under different circumstances he would have.

 

“There isn't much to say,” Will said, it wasn't like he was going to tell her everything, “I haven't felt well since,-”

 

“Hobbs?,” Alana said, “Or Cheryl White.”

 

The heavy silence between them was telling.

 

“Jack wondered if I was broken,” Will said, he laughed nervously, “do you think I'm breaking?”

 

They stood in the cold, frozen fields together. Alana touched his face and the warmth from her gloved hand was the best thing Will had felt in a long time.

 

“No,” Alana said, “but I worry about your stability. It can be hard to only look, objectivity requires a lot of work.”

 

It was harder to acknowledge the unspoken _'because you're an omega'_ at the end of it. Will suddenly felt small and vulnerable, it was precisely how he didn't want to feel.

 

“Did you talk to Hannibal about your symptoms?” Alana asked.

 

“No,” Will said.

 

“Is that because you're worried that he might try to diagnose,” she said, “or is it because you might have to let down Jack?”

 

“Neither,” Will said, “I can keep doing my job. I'm sick not an invalid.”

 

“Hannibal asked about you,” Alana said, “when I went over for dinner last week. He seemed concerned. He said you had cancelled last week's appointment. In fact, the last two appointments.”

 

The bitter taste in his mouth appeared for many reasons.

 

“That's why you offered to stop by,” Will said, “to check in on me, for him?”

 

It made him feel sick. He'd wanted to hold her, kiss her, touch her but it was clear that she had seen him as some kind of accessory to an alpha she was attached to and not just a man.

 

“Yes and no,” Alana said, “when Hannibal worries, I get worried. Beyond professional concern.”

 

He considered it. Considered telling her everything. But plain old embarrassment stopped him from going any further into her confidence. She saw him as she scented him; a distant, emotionally compromised omega. Her mistaken perception would only get worse if he mentioned what had happened during his last heat.

 

“There's nothing to be concerned about,” Will said, if he could have snapped shut the entire contents of his mind, he would have, “I'm not Jack's broken pony or Dr. Lecter's pet patient. It's nothing I haven't handled before. I'm tired. Some rest and I'll be ready to look again.”

 

“Will,” Alana said, “I want you to feel safe, for your own sake. Not for anybody else's. If something's wrong, talking to somebody can help.”

 

As kind as it was sincere, Will could only refuse. He didn't ask anything more about Hannibal or his hallucinations after that.

 

A few days later his sinuses were clearing, his head felt better. He seemed to be improving. After receiving conformation from his GP's office that he was in fact pregnant and the tests from the drug store hadn't been faulty or lying no matter how much he wanted it, it was time to face the music. Will was feeling emotionally out of sorts. Hannibal wasn't precisely a responsible solution but they hadn't talked about their encounter since it had happened. Will remembered it like a dream; the feeling of being touched, of being treasured. He wanted to know if what he felt was real. He knew no matter how much he wanted it, he had to break it off before their relationship _became_ anything real.

 

It was apparent that Will had walked in on something when he arrived at Hannibal's house and saw that the table set for company had been recently vacated. The air smelled sharp with unfamiliar alpha, a strange and sickly smell. It bothered his healing nose and reminded him of the concert hall, the sticky smell of alphas surrounding him, manhandling him. Pushing him around.

 

“You sent Alana to check up on me,” Will said.

 

Speaking of pushing around, Will had a few things on his mind. It was a harsh greeting after a long period of silence but Will was in no mood to negotiate.

 

“I wonder why you drove an hour in the snow to tell me,” Hannibal replied, cooly.

 

Hannibal was obviously perturbed by Will's recent absences. Will wondered if he had offended Hannibal's alpha sensitivities or his social ones. Will followed him to the kitchen where he was extracting one of the uneaten courses from an oven.

 

“That was very subtle,” Will said, “sending a messenger. Are you doubting my ability to function without you, Doctor?”

 

“A reasonable question. It's not as though you have a clear social bond with anyone,” Hannibal said.

 

It was a biting remark. Things were going to get nasty if they kept this up. Will wanted them to get nasty.

 

“If her opinion meant so much,” Will asked, “why didn't you call Dr. Bloom last time?”

 

Hannibal gave him a look. It was after all, quite a rude insinuation. None the less food had been placed in front of him, it had smelled wonderful. He had no idea what it was beyond a fruit dessert. He should have refused, hospitality was charged with a lot of things when an alpha was involved but it smelled too good to deny.

 

“She didn't posses what you needed,” Hannibal said.

 

Maybe, Will considered, food wasn't the only thing he was starved for.

 

“Are you saying because she's a beta,” Will said, “she's not as good?”

 

“Of course not,” Hannibal said, “what you required was absolute security, not steady comfort. A fortress to contain the fear, no matter how dubious.”

 

Will had almost eaten the entirety of the tart before he could even acknowledge how delicious it was. The cream had been heavenly. He was probably going to be screwed when the pregnancy cravings hit, he wasn't much for desserts but Hannibal made everything taste so good.

 

“Feeling better now?” Hanibal asked him.

 

Will glared at him and licked stray cream from his thumb. He was supposed to be angry, his privacy and sense of self had been invaded. But here he was being plied with food, acting the part of the wounded omega.

 

“What's dubious about my fortresses,” Will asked.

 

He tried not to sound like a petulant teenager, he probably failed.

 

“It isn't something you've ever acknowledged wanting,” Hannibal said, “But I did examine your pills on the first night. They were tampered with.”

 

Will noticed the fine wool suit vest and the way it moved over Hannibal's back. With clarity he recalled Hannibal's nude, muscled shoulders. The way the lats flowed into the base of his well muscled backside. Will quickly looked away, the skin under his collar reddening. This is why he had stayed away for so long, memories were easier to suppress until confronted with their source.

 

“I tampered with them myself,” Will said.

 

“Do you remember tampering with them?” Hannibal asked him.

 

“Not clearly,” Will said, “The case with Cheryl White had me thinking things I wouldn't normally consider.”

 

Like sleeping with his unconventional psychiatrist. He took in Hannibal's grace, his charming character and control and realized he was probably messed up from the start. Will was attracted to authority figures; he had been all his life. One particularly kind beta cop who looked after him when his dad wouldn't as a kid, and he had been sunk. It was so disgustingly typical.

 

“Did you loose yourself to her, Will?” Hannibal asked him, “Are you still lost?”

 

The food was gone and instead there was a dizzying feeling replacing it. He didn't know why but lately when he'd been around alphas they smelled wrong, only Hannibal smelled right. And here he was dealing with the consequences because of it, at the cusp of something he knew instinctively would lead to troubled places.

 

“I don't know,” Will said.

 

Sometimes when Will thinks back to their fevered mating he feels like that was the one time he saw the real Hannibal, the one without any pretence of civility. His perfect predator.

 

The same man whose alpha scent lit up the pleasure paths in Will's brain.

 

“Let me help you, Will” Hannibal said.

 

Hannibal's hand carded through Will's hair. It felt so good, for once in his life Will couldn't think of a single excuse not to let himself be carried away by the feeling.

 

“Why did you call Alana,” Hannibal asked him, “you longed for her for a reason. Tell me what it was.”

 

The press from his forehead to the nape of his neck had him nearly purring like a cat. Will took a deep and shuddering breath.

 

“ _Security.”_

 

It was the craving that drowned everything else out of his head in a chemical bath, Will could literally visualize every cell in his brain responding to the alpha he had stupidly latched onto during his heat. It was only instinct to reach for a connection, even if it was tenuous and fraught with uncertainty.

 

“Do you not feel secure?” Hannibal asked him, “You have a job and a home.”

 

“It's not that simple. I heard an injured animal on the field” Will said, “and nothing was there. Everything smells different. ”

 

“Different in what way,” Hannibal asked him, as he continued stroking his hair.

 

“On fire,” Will said, “burning, sometimes burnt. But I'm not in heat anymore. I won't be for a really long time.”

 

“Because you've confirmed you're pregnant,” Hannibal said,“how does that make you feel?”

 

It was a stupid question, Will almost laughed.

 

“Surprisingly relieved,” Will said, “I was always worried someone would bust in. Irrational fears about getting knocked up by a stranger.”

 

“We're more than strangers,” Hannibal said, “I would like to think.”

 

Will nodded, “Yeah. And I wanted you to do it.”

 

_I begged you like an animal_ , Will thought, _and you mounted me like one._

 

“Would you mind,” Will asked, “checking?”

 

It's an intimate thing to ask, something only bonded people and family tend to do. It's extremely submissive. Will knows he doesn't belong to anyone and he doesn't want to, but when Hannibal presses his nose against Will's exposed throat, a deep primal itch is scratched that Will had been waiting weeks to have answered.

 

“You don't smell pregnant yet,” Hannibal said, as he inhaled deeper, “But you smell like fear. Tell me what you're afraid of right now.”

 

Will said carefully, “in two months I'll smell like you and everyone will know what I did. I'll have to answer a lot of awkward questions at work and so will you.”

 

“You attacked a co-worker,” Hannibal said, “aggression is an indicator of repressed fear.”

 

“Jack already told you, didn't he?” Will breathed deeply, “There was nothing repressed about it. I didn't want him near me. I was confused and sick, felt vulnerable. Lashed out.”

 

Zeller had already commented on the pale, half healed bite on his throat when he'd gone back to work the first day. They had never gotten along and Will had watched bitterly while Zeller got the promotions because he was an alpha when Price deserved them more. The thought of Zeller seeing Will's stomach growing distended with child was nauseating. It had been aggravated by a crime scene. His reaction was unconscionable but certainly understandable.

 

The soft brush of warm air over his ear had Will shuddering all over. Hannibal had moved very close to him, nearly embracing him. The sensation was an absolute high; it felt like safety, security all the things he had been denied the last few months. It scattered his troubled thoughts like chafe over a field of wheat.

 

“What do you want from me,” Will whispered, “I can't tell. Can't even imagine.”

 

“I want nothing you wouldn't give to me freely,” Hannibal said.

 

“You could have walked away that day,” Will said, “you knew what was happening before I did.”

 

“I didn't want to leave you alone,” Hannibal said, “I worry about you.”

 

“Which is why you encouraged Alana to visit,” Will said, “that wasn't appreciated by the way.”

 

“She enjoys your company and I assure you, she went with little influence from me,” Hannibal said.

 

“I don't,” Will swallowed, “trust people. Not like that.”

 

Hannibal cupped his face gently and Will couldn't help the unbidden emotions that rose to the surface in a torrent, images of Abigail having her face cupped in the same way. Hannibal had been so good with omegas, they'd always fall all over him and try to placate but not Will. He'd been standoffish from the start, no matter what biology compelled him to say or do.

 

“Let me look after you,” said Hannibal, “during your pregnancy. And if you like, afterwards.”

 

Will was rendered speechless.

 

“I have my own life,” Will said, woodenly.

 

Hannibal smiled at him. It was a strange and mysterious expression, Will was impressed to discover he couldn't read what was behind its true meaning at all.

 

“As do I,” Hannibal said, “but we seem to get along when necessity forces us to convene. I'm not asking you to give up anything for me or for our child. Allow me to help you with whatever you require and ease the hesitance you feel.”

 

“What if I wanted an abortion,” Will fired back.

 

“Then it would be your right,” Hannibal said, “and I would help you arrange it.”

 

It was probably the only sane reproductive decision Will could make under the circumstances.

 

“I don't want one,” Will said.

 

Hannibal stroked the back of Will's neck gently.

 

“The snow is very heavy,” Hannibal said, “stay here tonight.”

 

Will looked away, he studied the gleaming convex ovens behind Hannibal. He had come to Hannibal's home with the mind to be angry and he was dismayed to see where it had gotten him.

 

“The dogs will miss me,” Will said.

 

_Don't say yes,_ he counselled himself, _do anything to avoid spending the night. Jump out the god damn window if you have to._

 

“They have enough food and water,” Hannibal said, “they'll be fine.”

 

Will could see the depths of Hannibal's eyes reflecting the dim light in the kitchen. The yellow lights highlighted specks of blood red in the deep maroon, they were very strange. An unusual, if beautiful, genetic quirk. Will wondered if their child would have eyes that looked the same.

 

“All right,” Will said.

 

Pretence had dissolved as the lights in the beautiful stone house were dimmed one by one. There was a lot of comfort in darkness, at least for Will who felt like every light filled second was taking some piece of him away. At the threshold of Hannibal's bedroom Will endured a sudden attack of nerves. His pulse increased and his heart began to race.

 

But Hannibal had appeared behind him and placed the gentlest hand against the small of his back and pushed him forward. Will took a step and another and sat down on the edge of the bed, drinking in what he could see in the low light. Dark wood wardrobes, green walls and accents. Absurdly beautiful paintings that had highly symbolic meanings Will couldn't begin to fathom. It was like a Boschian garden of Eden. The bed was, of course, a four poster with ornate wood carvings. Will sat down on it and felt the luxurious sheets give under his fingers as they instinctively clenched.

 

Most importantly, the room smelled like Hannibal and only Hannibal. Will inhaled deeply. He remembered how he had felt during his last heat, he had hated the thought of anyone near Hannibal but himself. Even thinking about Abigail, a barely mature omega that he saw more as a daughter than anything else, had made him agitated.

 

Hannibal had taken something from a wardrobe and laid it beside Will. At a glance, it was a silk, long sleeved pyjama top. Probably the upper half to a gentleman's set. Will stared at it hard as Hannibal left the room, probably to the washroom for his nightly ablutions. Perhaps also to give Will privacy in considering whether or not to wear it.

 

Will inhaled slowly, relaxed his hands from their tight clench and began unbuttoning his shirt. He noticed with extreme acuity that there weren't any pyjama bottoms provided but the shirt was large. It would probably fall to his thighs. Not obscene, but not very modest either. It was typical alpha behaviour to offer omegas their clothes, scent marking them. Will quietly vowed to keep his underwear on at all costs. (Even if he was fighting a losing battle, even if he could feel warmth creeping across his skin from the scent marking and food and everything being done right, even when he didn't know what he had wanted to happen in the first place).

 

He slipped the shirt on, it was probably silk or satin he didn't know the difference just that both were incredibly soft on his skin. The colour was a deep green. It made his skin tone look almost sallow. He shucked the rest of his clothes, belt, pants, socks and folded them relatively neatly on a chair in the name of good manners.

 

In a moment of clarity, it hit him he was in his psychiatrist's house in nothing but his briefs and an oversized pyjama shirt. He may have let out a small, hysterical laugh. His palms were sweating, his heart pounding. He didn't know what to expect. He touched his stomach gingerly, there was no tell-tale swelling, there wouldn't be for at least another few months. But if he imagined it, he could feel his stomach as distended and swollen as it would be when he was further along. At five months, maybe six he would be forced out of any field work, Jack would be so angry with the both of them...

 

“You're thinking about what will happen,” Hannibal's voice startled Will, “in a few months time.”

 

“Trying not to,” Will said, “it's not working.”

 

“Perhaps I can help,” Hannibal said.

 

Hannibal encircled Will's waste until their bodies were nearly flush. Maybe it was the feeling of Hannibal's hands moving down to his thighs, the soft material rubbing against his hips. The scent of an alpha strong and willing, touching him. He relaxed.

 

“What do you want, Will?” Hannibal asked him.

 

The question caught him off guard, he wasn't sure how to answer. Sex was perhaps the most literal and blunt answer he could offer. Followed by comfort, companionship. Desperate human needs he had tried to deny and had failed to, over and over again. But that wasn't the issue, sex had never really been the problem.

 

“Teach me,” Will said, “how to lose myself.”

 

There was a smile forming on Hannibal's face at the base of Will's neck, Will could feel it growing. The return of the predator, his alpha who had breathed hot air against his cooling sweat.

 

He felt Hannibal's hands tighten around his hips, felt his fingers slip under the hem of the night shirt and slowly tug down his briefs. Will stamped down the hesitation he was feeling, the sudden affront to his control over the situation. Of course he was still _in control_. He could tell Hannibal to stop and he had no doubt he would honour his request. He could put on his clothes and walk away, get in his car and drive an hour in a storm to see his dogs.

 

The cool air between his legs made goosebumps rise all over his skin. He didn't have any answers except that this was what he wanted at that very moment, just like he had wanted to get pregnant during his last heat. He stepped out of his briefs and turned around to take what he wanted.

 

He felt Hannibal's hands against his wrists as they squeezed his arms and pulled him forward. Will looked at Hannibal and tried to see.

 

Initially, he saw the easy image of a man who enjoyed fine things, who was harmlessly ostentatious; who kept himself closed to anyone who might enter his life so he could maintain his own. Who let Will in under conditions neither quite understood. Will saw through Hannibal's eyes that he was looking at a patient and a partner, a curiosity and a lover. It was a strange dichotomy to experience. But underneath it all was the predator Will had gotten to know, the man who had soothed him through his last heat. Who taught him what sleeping with an alpha could be like. That was the man who was holding Will now, the tremor of darkness that ran under an otherwise unassuming front.

 

The man who was pressing his hot mouth to Will's and making him breathless, who was leading him to bed. It was a doctor's clandestine relationship with a patient, it was so very wrong and that's why it felt so right.

 

Will groaned against the mouth that was plundering his as his knees pressed down against the mattress of the bed. He was torn between submitting to the assault or trying to keep up with the hands that roamed over his body. His grip was as strong as Hannibal's but he didn't want to lead, he wanted to be lead.

 

“Follow your instincts,” Hannibal said softly into his ear, “they're telling you exactly what you need.”

 

“Yesss,” Will hissed.

 

His body ached so much for it, he couldn't stand it.

 

Will exposed his throat to Hannibal. It was an offering, a sacrifice. He could mark him again over the already healed bite he had left over a month ago.

 

“Very good,” Hannibal said.

 

Will felt the soft sniffs at the base of his shoulder, his neck and along his ear. The sharp pain/pleasure of teeth as they punctured his skin...

 

The bite encouraged his body to seize and his skin to come alive with feeling. The back of his spine arched in an imitation of a heat infused lordosis effect. Will felt wet, though significantly less than a high hormonal heat, it was still enough to make him recall the sensation of being slick with it.

 

Hannibal had unbuttoned Will's shirt quickly and slid it down his shoulders far enough to tie it in back as a makeshift restraint. Hannibal had leaned back on an extraordinary high pile of pillows and pulled Will over him. Will groaned as he felt Hannibal's cloth covered cock rub up against his groin.

 

“I want you to do it to yourself, Will,” Hannibal said, as he grabbed Will's hips, “show me how much you want to have our baby.”

 

Will panted, he was so aroused. He _wanted, wanted, wanted_ with all his being and had no idea what precisely he was supposed to do to get it. He scrambled with Hannibal's pyjama bottoms, barely able to move his arms, until he exposed his alpha cock already slick with precum. He positioned himself with the help of Hannibal's strong grip and hovered over his alpha's cock.

 

“I want it so much,” Will gasps, “god, I want it.”

 

“Take it for yourself,” Hannibal encouraged him.

 

It's a long, slow tortuous slide as Will's body slowly opens to the cock he's taking inside. He's not in heat, the easy slick isn't available for him to use to sink down quickly. Will feels every inch as it fills him up, opening up his body again for Hannibal's sperm. He can see Hannibal so clearly from this position, watch the little flickers of pleasure and pain across his face. Will has him in a tight grip and even if he is a panting, wanton mess he has Hannibal right where he wants him. Groaning under him, burying himself in Will's ass.

 

“Harder,” Hannibal directed him, his voice strained, “you're doing so well, go further.”

 

Will groans. This is almost what he wants but not quite, he can ride Hannibal's cock over and over, feel the pleasurable pain of being stretched open. He moans and arches his body and feels the cock hitting deep inside of him when he bottoms out. A sweat has broken out over both their bodies and Will marvels at how Hannibal looks with his tousled hair and shirt askew, the sweat collecting above his top lip. He loves it like this, loves watching Hannibal's carefully constructed exterior fall apart under him.

 

“Please,” Will begs, “please I need more.”

 

He can't come, no matter how hard he tries and riding Hannibal's cock to the hilt isn't enough. He's not sure what to ask for so he rolls his hips and is rewarded with the sound of Hannibal's breathy gasps.

 

“More,” Will groans, and he feels unhinged as the sweat trickles down his back forming into small puddles along his spine, “give it to me.”

 

Will hears the snarl before he registers what's happening. His torso is torqued, he's lifted off of the cock that was giving him so much pleasure and forced onto his stomach. A strong hand has a tight grip in his hair, almost to the point it hurts. He feels the pressure of a hand on the back of his neck. He's face down in the pillows, his air flow is compromised. He's delirious from near asphyxiation and can feel his ass being stretched again by Hannibal's cock and he doesn't care if he dies like this, he's getting exactly what he wanted.

 

A ruthless fucking commences, Will can hear the sound of their skin smacking together, can feel his glutes take the force eagerly. He's going to have bruises along his hips and thighs. He's being marked. His breath has nearly left him but at the last moment he hears Hannibal's choked voice, he feels the sperm enter him in hot, thick spurts. It fills him up and Will moans into the pillows with the last bit of air he has.

 

Hannibal slides out of him, relieves the pressure on his neck and efficiently helps Will onto his back. Will gasps as his still turgid cock is grabbed. They're doing it together because Will can't possibly keep his hands off himself now, the feeling of his breath being cut short is fading, the stretch in his ass is still deliriously good and he comes quickly over both their hands, his abdomen shaking from the strain.

 

Will collapsed onto his back, absolutely boneless and blank. They laid side by side for a few blessed moments, the sound of their panting the only noise in the room. Hannibal eventually extricated himself from the bed and offered Will some tissues. They cleaned themselves up silently. Will disentangled himself from Hannibal's shirt so he could lay on the cooled sheets. He nearly dozed off after a few seconds of his head hitting the pillow.

 

“People shouldn't be allowed to have beds this comfortable,” Will mumbles.

 

He pressed his face against what felt like a puffy arrangement of clouds and considered.

 

“Does anyone really need eight pillows?”

 

He heard a soft laugh, felt the press of a kiss to the edge of his mouth.

 

“Go to sleep, Will.”

 

In the early hours of the morning Will made his way from Hannibal Lecter's bed and into his absurdly luxurious shower. He cleaned himself up, got dressed, left the house and sat in his car for almost twenty minutes staring at the freshly fallen snow before resting his head against the steering wheel.

 

“That was distinctly _not_ breaking it off,” Will said aloud to himself.

 

He squeezed his eyes shut in frustration. It would be a long hour drive home.

 


	2. Defanged

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again. 
> 
> There are bits and pieces of Red Dragon throughout this chapter (and probably the whole story really) I hope astute readers enjoy finding them. No new warnings for this chapter, though a few questions have been answered concerning a certain friendly fellow with a penchant for string instruments. Any and all mistakes I apologize for in advance. (and feel free to point out any errors in the comments) Thank-you.

II

 

The prescription for Will's glasses had been filled regularly since he was a child, even when his father had been content to let many other pressing needs slide (It was a shame that still burned; he had never seen a dentist until his twenty-first birthday just after he had been granted medical coverage from his college). His glasses were kept up for the simple reason that he couldn't read the books he was assigned because of his far sightedness, and the teachers would ask after him when he fell behind. Having glasses had seemed absurd in the face of houses that were one strong wind away from falling down and toilets that occasionally still required an outdoor trip to use. Being poor and in the country was a lifestyle that very few could hold for any length of time; it involved hard work, tireless slavery and knowing you would have nothing at the end of the day no matter how much pain you endured. Will remembered the dichotomy of seeing his first IBM in school when he was eleven and then going home to a house with fuses so weak it was impossible to turn on the kettle and use the toaster at the same time. That was when they lived in a house; sometimes Will had been in a house boat, a motel and during one particularly wretched year, a dilapidated mobile home.

 

Watching television as a child was a surreal experience since he had no ability to relate to the lifestyles that paraded across the screens. Movies became meaningless, popular culture even more so because what did it matter when your father worked more hours than the day seemed to have and all you could do to escape the southern summer was to crawl into a library and hope you weren't noticed when you stayed well after closing time to fend off the heat and inevitable boredom. He did well in school because there was nothing else to do and rebellion would only mean more idleness. His few friends were always countable on one hand, Will often had nothing to offer but himself and that never seemed to go very far.

 

He still didn't own a television, he preferred the computer.

 

When Will wore his glasses they made the world closest to him clear and blurred out all the extraneous noise and light around him to a tolerable level. It was how he got through his childhood, it was how he was getting through the current week still weak from his illness and sick with inner turmoil. Through the distortion in his lenses he could manage the riot of feelings he was experiencing; he taught, he did his job and eventually he received a call from Jack to meet Katz in the morgue so he could examine the most recent victims of their suspected killer.

 

“You look better,” Katz said, “still pasty but...better.”

 

It was a half compliment, suited to Will's disposition on a cold winter morning after being dragged away from his dogs and his teaching to a cold and chilly morgue.

 

“I feel better,” Will said, “Jack told me there was something I should see.”

 

He was lead to two gurneys occupied by adult men, betas considering the death smell Will could pick up emanating from both of them. Will had sprayed his nose with an analgesic but his sinuses still ached in the face of a concentrated bout, it was markedly unpleasant but bearable, a clear sign his infection was almost gone.

 

“Missed some excitement while you were excused from field work,” she said, “two agents were killed and the perp walked.”

 

“What happened?” Will asked.

 

“Suspect for the concert hall case,” Katz said, “A Mr. Tobias Budge, owned a string shop. Looks like he was more than a suspect.”

 

“Or he saw the badge and panicked,” Will said.

 

“Not this guy,” Katz said, “he took his time.”

 

She pulled the sheet off the bodies and Will was treated to hollowed out corpses still wearing their FBI uniforms. Emptied out of all their essentials with their ribs partly exposed surrounding the empty cavity of their stomachs. They might as well have been clothed pigs in a butcher's stall. Will was relieved he didn't recognize either of them.

 

“Bet you'll find this more interesting,” Katz said, “a little bird told me that Dr. Lecter was the one to call in on the suspect.”

 

“Was he?” said Will, “Why?”

 

“His patient knew him personally,” Katz said, “the poor guy was killed a few minutes away from Dr. Lecter's office. Another five and the perp, as determined as he was, might have chased him inside.”

 

“Was he shot?” asked Will.

 

“No,” Katz said, “broke his neck. Gleefully, right on the street and in front of two witnesses in the next building over.”

 

Will considered the implications of the crime. He could see the precise movements of its execution, this man was in no hurry but still conscientious in relation to the passage of time. Each action had been carefully considered, there was a pattern to it, a certain chaotic beauty tinged with fondness.

 

“He was writing a farewell letter,” Will said.

 

“To who?” asked Katz.

 

“Whoever he was performing for,” Will said, “But it's not a goodbye. More of a 'see you later'.”

 

“That's comforting,” Katz said.

 

Will said, “the person he was performing for could have been on that street or live near the area. Close enough to see.”

 

“The media got there pretty quick,” Katz said, “If the aftermath was televised it could have been for anybody who watches local networks.”

 

“This set up wasn't for the media. The cultural arts have a prestige associated with live performances. Whoever that man wanted to see was watching him do it. This is the start of something, not the end,” Will said.

 

The mood in Jack's office was a somber one. Families had recently been notified in the leather chairs Will so often sat in and the whole room had the lingering scent of omega distress. It made Will's sinuses itch more than the death smell; these men had been involved with their families, been raising children. And now they were hollowed out meat slapped into the bureau’s databases.

 

“I'm sorry,” Will said, “about the agents.”

 

“Agent Milford and agent Carfax,” Jack said, “good men, a terrible tragedy. Katz filled you in, now it's your turn.”

 

Will explained to Jack what the evidence had told him. But there was something else that had nagged at him, something that Jack would have wanted to hear himself.

 

He added, “the way the figures were clothed but displayed...”

 

“It's a call out,” Jack said, “to the ripper.”

 

The little pieces Will saw around the office said a lot about Jack's mental state. The picture of his wife had been moved from the third shelf down to the second, at eye level if Will were to sit to the left of where Jack sat now. Close enough to be acknowledged but not close enough to cause constant stress. A coping mechanism for temporary relief. The trash bin had been moved near the chair Will was sitting in for the benefit of the visiting agent's families but Will noticed that a small pile of tissue had escaped being properly disposed of by Jack's desk. He had likely been upset not only by the agents but pushed to express his sadness by the combined business concerning their deaths and his wife's ailment. And then there were the papers that were normally stacked in neat piles, scattered in disarray. Everything was in flux, it was all showing cracks.

 

Will's own tremulous sanity could easily be seen as another crack by Jack's superiors.

 

“Yes,” Will said, “Which means Tobias Budge either knew the ripper personally or thought he did.”

 

“What do you mean by thought?” Jack asked.

 

“If he had direct contact, would he really need to perform or write a letter?” Will said.

 

“Unless,” Jack prodded, “he was afraid.”

 

Will adjusted his glasses and looked studiously at the ground but he could still read Jack's posture from the corner of his vision; his excitement at the possibility the ripper could be moved to expose himself, his hunger for a new chance at revenge and the assumption that Will would get him there after enough time. Because it was through him that Jack could see the ripper the clearest and that was why, even after Will had turned tail and left the field work to other just as capable people, Jack had wanted him back.

 

“He knew enough to keep his distance to be polite and not cloying. The ripper was there, watching. Or nearby,” Will said.

 

“Do you think he'll do it again to draw out the ripper,” Jack said, “our perp?”

 

“He won't be provoked easily,” Will said, “who knows when 'see you later' actually means.”

 

Jack sighed, “Mr. Budge is very clever. We're having a lot of problems catching him. But when we do, I bet we can get information.”

 

“Are you suggesting a manhunt?” Will said.

 

“Unless he kills again,” Jack said, “it's a dead end.”

 

“If he doesn't want to be found,” Will cautioned, “he won't be. He only came to our attention because he was showing off. He's had years to practice stepping softly.”

 

“He won't make a misstep again,” Jack said grimly, “not until he needs to.”

 

“Or he's asked to,” Will said.

 

There was always the possibility Tobias Budge was starting a conversation with the Ripper without any intention of finishing it.

 

“One more thing,” Jack said, “There's something we ought to discuss.”

 

To Will's dismay, Jack's body language had changed. Now Will wasn't just his employee but his ward. It was beginning to feel like the principal's office. Will sat in his chair with a sense of dread he hadn't experienced since he was fourteen, waiting for his father at school because he had managed to punch an alpha boy unconscious.

 

“Price told me,” Jack said, “that you're expecting.”

 

Will stared ahead unblinking, a wave of mortification quickly taking over his sensibilities.

 

“Are you?” Jack asked him.

 

Will continued to sit in an uncomfortable silence.

 

“Yes,” he said.

 

Jack was staring him down, scrutinizing him. His shoulders relaxed, oddly enough, he seemed relieved.

 

“Well,” he said, “that explains the aggression.”

 

“My moods have nothing to do-,” Will snapped, “with that!”

 

“It puts you on edge, Will,” Jack said, “anyone would feel the same. It's a major life change particularly since you never showed the tiniest inclination or taste for family life.”

 

“Being a surrogate isn't exactly family life,” Will said.

 

“Is that what you planned? Because Price didn't say any of that. In fact, he came to me because he was concerned,” Jack said.

 

Their voices were rapidly reaching the sort of volume better left to the outdoors, Will leaped up to better stand his ground.

 

“It was consensual,” Will said.

 

“That's not what I'm talking about,” Jack said, “I'm talking about your state of mind. Making rash decisions is part of that.”

 

He felt like somebody's erstwhile child on prom night.

 

“I can make my own decisions,” Will said, “I'm still capable as long as my mind is rational.”

 

“Have you spoken about this with Dr. Lecter,” Jack said.

 

It spun him for a few moments, until he recovered quickly enough to realize what he was talking about.

 

“Yes,” Will said.

 

“Then I assume he knew before I did and didn't tell me,” Jack said.

 

Will scoffed, “Doctor/patient confidentiality.”

 

“And I need to know if you can't do field work or if you're too damaged to be put out there on a day to day basis,” Jack retaliated, “and damaged is what I'm reading right now, Will.”

 

“You gave me a chance to back out and I didn't,” Will reminded him.

 

“Yeah, well, family changes things,” Jack said.

 

“I'm not a scapegoat for the discomforting situation concerning your wife,” Will said.

 

It was admittedly, a very low blow.

 

“I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that. Take some time, Will. To think on it. You're dismissed,” Jack said.

 

Will stormed out of the office and into the restroom. He glared at his own face in the mirror, angry at Price and angry at himself for trusting him. He splashed cold water on his face, collected himself and left, making sure to slam every door behind him.

 

Ultimately, Will did what he was told. He went home that evening and thought about it. Worked up his anger. He ran the dogs around his little house and admired the tiny lights against the dusk on the frigid winter fields. He cooked a meagre but wholesome dinner made of fish he had caught himself earlier in the season, flash frozen and thawed carefully, fried up with some flour and salt, a bit of butter. Boiled potatoes that came from the neighbours next door, the last of the Fall harvest given to him in thanks for letting them use his field grass for fodder.

 

His dogs were restless and curious about his agitation so he played with them in the way they liked best, a rousing tug of war with thick, chewed up rope. They fell into a furry pile at the end and crowded around him, alternately licking his face and nosing each other. When they settled down, Will thought about the murderer Tobias Budge and the motivations behind his final performance piece and he wondered if the ripper had been right there all along, watching the FBI scramble.

 

He went to bed uneasy, like there was some essential piece he's missing that he just couldn't get a hold of.

 

He dreamt about blood on the ground and holding dirt between his fingers. He woke up shaking. Changed his shirt. Went back to bed.

 

Will woke up a second time without opening his eyes. There was a heavy pressure on his back as though a dog had decided to lay on top of him. They were very good about staying in their bedding area, Will prided himself on training his dogs well. They loathed to break the routine Will had set for them and strays so desperately needed routines or they would slip back into the bad habits they had learned from before they had been owned. Will felt a nip at the back of his neck that didn't feel like any dog; he heard the long, low breaths that meant a bigger animal had taken roost on top of him than one of his mutts.

 

Will realized with some alarm that he wasn't even in his own bed. His fingers clenched, he felt the earth beneath them.

 

He was on his stomach face down in the dirt, he could feel the giant ribs along his spine and when he opened his eyes he could see the hooves on either side of his head. His breathing became panicked, he began to struggle. But the animal began to whisper things to him in its strange sibilant tongue and calmed him. Until he didn't have to be afraid of anything anymore. Not the head space of murderers, not the FBI, not Jack's insistent contention that he see every gruesome thing done to human bodies, and not even the Ripper that loomed like a filmy spectre in the back of his mind.

 

 _This is as close to love as I'll ever get_ , he thinks drowsily.

 

But then the sounds began, strange and echoing. He couldn't lift his head to see their origins and could only hear them. The sound of earth moving, a shovel hitting turf, the noise metal makes when it hits against ice and gives. The whispers tried to overwhelm the noise but Will accepted that although the whispers were comforting, the shovelling was sinister. He had to shake off the beast before he could stop it.

 

Will woke up to his alarm screaming at him and a powerful headache. His back was aching, he felt extremely cold. Dogs yipped around his ankles when he staggered out of bed, wincing.

 

He hurt, his whole body hurt and he had no idea why.

 

“Hey,” he said to his mutts, “calm!”

 

Their frantic yowling ceased but the feeling of alarm that crept up Will's spine didn't stop. There were smears on his floor and clods of dirt. Will looked at his hands and noticed there was a lot of grime under his nails. As he wandered down the hall with his dogs at his heels he noticed clothing peppered throughout his house as though it had been shed from coming in from outside. A jacket, trousers and a sweater. Boots by the door soiled with dirt. But Will hadn't left his house since he went to bed, or so he had thought.

 

He found his answer on the side of his house early dawn, in the form of a busted up shovel leaning against a tree. His field was a large one but there were orchard trees that cornered the edges of his land before they met the farmer's land next door, an older alpha with family and a propensity to mind his own business which normally suited Will just fine. On the edge of his land propped up against the oldest and deadest of the trees was a rusted shovel Will distinctly remembered running over when he had borrowed a mower to chip away at the 12 inches of grass the vacant lot had gathered before he had bought it that Spring. His mower had hit an old shovel and bent it, nearly giving him a heart attack when he heard it go through the blades. It was twisted almost all the way around on the spade and Will had propped it up against the tree and promptly forgotten about it for several years. Until now, when he was looking at its bent and tormented form and the small three foot by three foot hole he had dug on his property.

 

Will shivered in his jacket and thick pants and didn't wonder anymore why he was so sore and had woken up so cold. It was over 20 minutes from the house to get to the edge of the orchard and then he must have dug for hours in the dead of night to make that much of a hole mid-winter, chipping through ice and snow.

 

“Winston!” Will shouted.

 

Winston was enthusiastically kicking at the pile of sod next to the depression in the ground, scattering it over the rest of the dogs milling around its edges.

 

“Stop that,” he said.

 

The last thing Will needed was his dogs covered in mud to start the day.

 

He blinked in the light that was steadily growing across his fields and wondered what his dream self had been thinking. The gnarled tree looked like something from a Halloween leaflet, blackened and twisted. It had likely been hit by lightning several times to create the cracked opening on the side, peppered with ugly splints. Will observed the hole at the foot of it and concluded that it looked more like a grave than anything else. A small, infant sized hole. It was most disturbing because the context was lacking; the meaning blurred. Will couldn't decipher what his sleep self was trying to tell him. Whether it was only fear to be pushed aside, or a dire warning.

 

Every session in Hannibal's office had become more like a temple ritual. There were lines that they didn't cross, that Will would not cross yet because of his associations. His conversations, while not listed as technical therapy since they weren't technically doctor and patient (a minor quibble that would likely save Hannibal's license when the truth came out), were still sacrosanct. Will desperately needed something still sacred and so they would keep their conversations as they had always been while confined together there, carefully treading the worn steps they had created since the first time Will had walked into the blood red room.

 

“Perhaps Jack has crossed a line,” Hannibal said, “you certainly seemed angry about it.”

 

Agitation was a look Will could wear well. He paced and he bristled in the comfort of Hannibal's office picking through the books on the first floor. Hannibal had many texts in several different languages on obscure and curious subjects well beyond psychiatry. When Will had stumbled across a very old encyclopedia concerning obscure diseases, complete with hideous illustration plates, he was reminded that Hannibal had once been a surgeon.

 

“Angry is an understatement,” Will said.

 

“Feeling anger is positive,” Hannibal said, “it means you're processing emotions and not repressing them.”

 

“Sometimes I know Jack is trying to be my father,” Will said, “not my boss.”

 

There were some very strange object d'arts placed curiously between the tall shelves filled with Hannibal's books, including a quiver full of Native American arrows, a homunculus of the head perched on a decorous plinth that looked incredibly ancient, a box full of pinned insects that leaned on a bookshelf. Death's Head Moth, was the only visible label. The others were too worn to read. It was a wunderkabinett filled with memories and the contents were as much a part of Hannibal's mind as Will's home was a reflection of his. Like a Rorschach test, they had little meaning alone without the subjective interpretations.

 

“It's a very complex relationship between alphas and omegas in workplace situations,” Hannibal said, “the longing is always there to protect. And alphas much like their counterparts are at the whims of certain natural urges from time to time.”

 

“He can't smell it on me yet,” Will said, “if he did, maybe I'd forgive the chivalry.”

 

“Is it really misplaced chivalry,” Hannibal asked him, “or is he concerned because of uncharacteristic behaviour from someone he thought he knew well?”

 

“People change,” Will said.

 

“But not usually from their core selves,” Hannibal said.

 

“Do you think,” Will said, “I'm changing?”

 

“As much as anyone does when faced with major life decisions,” Hannibal said, “I've also known you for far less time than Jack. Perhaps the change is more obvious to him, or it could be minor changes adjusted over many years. But to him since he knows you so well, or thinks he does, it's cataclysmic.”

 

“I don't get his motivations,” Will said, “I can see all the pieces fit together but I can't understand why.”

 

“You understand Jack's motivations much more than he would ever give you credit,” Hannibal said.

 

Will laughed awkwardly.

 

“Are you trying to alienate me from Jack Crawford?” Will said.

 

“He considers you unstable,” Hannibal said, “what does that make you feel?”

 

“Irritation,” Will said, “confusion because he pushes so much and then...”

 

“The repercussions are yours alone,” Hannibal said.

 

“Yes,” Will said, “and sometimes they're not just responsibilities but people.”

 

“Abigail is our responsibility together,” Hannibal said, “you're not alone in that.”

 

“Sometimes,” Will said, “Jack asks me questions about her that I'm not sure how to answer. I'm not her mother, I don't know her the way Garret Jacob Hobbs did.”

 

“Hobbs also preferred beta women,” Hannibal said, “he was bonded to one. Abigail was his only daughter.”

 

It had been one of the small things that had allowed Will to make the connection between Hobbs and his murders. All the girls had been betas, one fractured element of Hobb's criteria that had been born out of necessity. It was extremely difficult for omegas to endure the smell of an alpha dying or another omega in distress. An ancient biological quirk that had endured through millenniums of evolution. Hobbs no doubt could have used a gun or other implement to kill alpha girls or omega ones but there were too many variables. The delicate scent membrane in every omega's nose was a contemptuous thing, prone to hormonal whims. The wrong death scent at the wrong time and it would cause complications in a murderer's perfect design, it was an unacceptable chaotic element to those careful enough to acknowledge it. Omega murderers were rare and Will had only encountered a few in his career but none were so efficient as Hobbs and the unfortunate Cheryl White.

 

But she wasn't a true omega, Will thought, she felt like an imposter in a world hostile to her designs.

 

“There were certain similarities between us,” Will said, “that I couldn't deny. That I can't deny, even now.”

 

“Abigail is strong headed,” Hannibal said, “it isn't difficult to see yourself in her either.”

 

Will nodded, “that part is more intimidating than the rest.”

 

He had come across the folios written by psychiatrists and academics from the university stacked neatly in a long row. Will flicked through one that had been written by Hannibal himself, he hadn't read it when he was studying social disorders in university. He felt fortunate, it would have been exceptionally strange if he had read the papers written by the future father of his child years ago as a student. He put the folio back.

 

“She's an omega alone,” Hannibal said, “just as you were as a boy.”

 

“Relatively,” Will said.

 

“A father who is absent is still essentially alone,” Hannibal reminded him.

 

“Not the same as being dead,” Will said.

 

Because a father alive could still screw up and make bad decisions for their child. As an angry, despondent teenager Will had wished his father dead many times, had thought that perhaps his life would get easier if his last remaining parent were out of it. In a way he had gotten his wish as an adult; non-communication was almost like being dead but it was his father and not Will who had decided the matter.

 

“He didn't know what to do with a son like me,” Will said, “And I never did figure out what to do with him.”

 

Occasionally on particularly lonely days Will felt a tiny stab of guilt. His father was as cantankerous as any old alpha who had felt cheated by life could be, he would probably die alone in the Florida Everglades in the shack Will had last left him in. It was a grim consideration, Will wondered if his father had even kept his contact information, if he would even get the call when it happened. A man could only live so long on whiskey before something began to give, and his father had so loved his moonshines and whiskey bourbons whenever he could afford to get them, in great and staggering quantities.

 

“He wasn't an evil man,” Will said, “never touched a hair on my head, wasn't abusive. But he could be cruel, in his own way.”

 

“Do you see a commonality in the way he treated you and the way Jack treats you now?” Hannibal asked him.

 

“No,” Will said, “Jack respects me, no matter what I am. I didn't get that from my father.”

 

Will picked up a slim red box off a shelf and opened it, revealing a long medical instrument.

 

“What's this?” Will asked.

 

Hannibal leaned in close and Will could smell a hint of his body scent that was uniquely his under his cologne. Will was temporarily distracted wondering if that particular scent was the one that would invade his body when the time came, if that

knowledge would tear open the fragile quiet that their sessions had managed to create. The closed box was gently taken from Will's hands and opened. The object inside looked like an old metal hair pin, it was long and had a small trowel on the end.

 

“A very old implement from history. It was once used to treat patients, particularly omegas who were prone to experience bouts of insanity. Of course, sanity as it is now is quite a subjective experience. Most who went under its therapy were merely not adhering to social norms in their particular era.”

 

Hannibal held up the instrument so Will could better see its design.

 

“It was inserted in the nasal cavity and used to puncture the scent membrane in the sinuses. The omega was then delivered to an alpha relative or partner so they could be guided to form the proper relationships.”

 

“Wouldn't that,” Will said, “make it worse?”

 

“They would suffer incredible agony after the procedure,” Hannibal said, “some died from shock. The ones that survived would become completely dependent on their relatives for support. The scent relationship between their perceptions of themselves and others would have been totally distorted. Their lives would have been lived confused between reality and illusion, completely dependent until the day they died.”

 

“That's disturbing,” Will said.

 

“Psychiatry is a field with beginnings that are particularly ugly,” Hannibal said, “much like all medicine. We have fortunately moved very far beyond this form of treatment, and only in the most extreme cases is it ever considered.”

 

“History creates,” Will said, “a reminder of that ugliness.”

 

“Yes,” Hannibal said, “And I'm very thankful for it.”

 

“Yeah,” Will said, “me too.”

 

 

After his session was over Will decided to drive around Baltimore before setting off home. He looked at the shops along the streets and thought about the two men that had died during the investigation. He wondered if his presence would have

made a difference and ultimately decided it wouldn't have. If he had gone, he might not have been alive at this very moment to even ponder it.

 

Will thought about his weekend and wondered if cold water fishing would bring him any trout, while he picked up dog food and biscuits from a small pet store that always had what he liked for his animals for the least amount of money. Frugality had never left him but in a town with so much supply and demand, it was hardly an issue. Will did not have expensive tastes, he preferred the simple and efficient. He liked the middle of the road in most things because he had settled for the worst in many. A defence mechanism from the bad old days, it had saved his expectations on many occasions.

 

Will does have expectations, no matter what anyone might think. He has ideals that people fall short of, he has a fractured but whole sense of self worth. His sense of decency might have been learned from a man with little of it but it stuck with him, and it trails after him like a starving animal into the worst places.

 

It's because of it that Will knows who he is even when he falls into the grey, muddy waters of a killer's mind. He is not Garrett Jacob Hobbs or Cheryl White, though in some ways he has absorbed pieces of them into himself that he can't get rid of.

 

On the highway a scant twenty minutes before he arrived home Will stopped at the side of the road because his vision had become blurred by a wet pressure behind his eyes. He sat in his car as other cars passed quickly by and leaned back in the driver's seat. He remembered what it was like to be a poor child nobody liked, an unbearably awkward adolescent. The quick charged struggle of adulthood, consumed by hours of studying because he was going to get out of the rut he had made for himself if it killed him. He thought about the time he was in the mental institution when he was twenty-six and felt like he couldn't go on.

 

He wondered if it was right or just that he was the one having the baby and not Cheryl White, who was perfect in every way except for one poisonous thing that had ended up killing her. Will stopped himself - because those questions had no answers, since the world was positioned along a schism that neither cared or acknowledged such petty concepts as who deserved what.

 

He drove the rest of the way home with a thickness in his throat that wouldn't leave, and a familiar pain behind his eyes that he refused to admit existed. Until he held his newest stray Winston, an unconscionably fair tempered dog considering his origins, and wet his fur with his memories, his frustrations and his fears.

 

The sleep walking doesn't stop. In the following weeks, Will digs at night and wakes up aching and sore, checks the hole near the old orchard and recognizes its ever encroaching size. It's bigger than an infant now, almost dog sized. Winston could jump right in it and fit like a glove. Will considered his options; he could tell someone about it and have them doubt his sanity or he could keep quiet, until the situation became too grave to ignore.

 

There is also the possibility it could simply be the last round of his antibiotics reacting with the stress he's experiencing and if so, in another three weeks when he's finished the sleep walking will disappear. Will hopes it's that simple. He doesn't expect it to be.

 

He received a call from Hannibal, more of a request. He'd been elbow deep in soapy water washing the dogs when he got the call and had to scramble for it when he saw the number flash up on his phone.

 

“I would like to give Abigail some relief from the hospital,” Hannibal said, “I thought a dinner at my house together might be good for her.”

 

“Is Alana coming?” Will asked.

 

“She's indisposed. Only the three of us,” Hannibal said, “I would appreciate it if you brought something you've caught fresh. I was thinking trout for the main course.”

 

Will almost dropped the phone from his slippery fingers in his excitement.

 

“Right, sure,” Will said, “when?”

 

“In three days, Saturday,” Hannibal said, “I'll bring Abigail from the hospital in the morning and return her before her curfew.”

 

After the call was over, he finished cleaning his dogs and took out some fat winter trout he had caught earlier in the week from the freezer (carefully he chooses the sizes, making sure that Abigail's was a particularly good looking fish). He loaded up a freezer bag to put in the fridge. They would be ready to drop off at Hannibal's tomorrow morning. It was something to look forward to and at the current time, Will had precious little in that regard.

 

Jack requests Will's presence to view the body of Hannibal's unfortunate patient before it's signed off to the family. Will has half a mind to refuse but realizes the gesture for what it is; a gruesome but effective peace offering. Will confirms that the neck was broken in exactly the way they had discussed, there were no finger prints. No identifying residue or marks of any kind.

 

“He didn't sneak up on him,” Will said, “this man trusted Budge right up until the moment his neck was snapped.”

 

“They were friends,” Jack said, “at least, that's what Dr. Lecter told us.

 

Will wondered what kind of life the victim led that he trusted without any suspicion even when Budge was about to wrap his hands around his neck. Thunderously and without warning, Will recalled his heat and how he had nearly strangled Hannibal in his living room. He could have killed Hannibal without resistance while looking into his eyes. There was something intimate about the murder, as much as it disturbed Will to think about the context. Though Franklyn Froideveaux was a beta and had purportedly suffered from neurosis and low self esteem, he had still reached out to find connections. Something Will had hardly managed to do despite biology gifting him a very potent reason why he might want to. Unfortunately, the connection Mr. Froideveaux had found had been an emotional dead end, quite literally.

 

“Are you okay?” Jack asked him in a way that sounded more like an order instead of a request after his well being.

 

“I'm doing fine,” Will had replied.

 

He would be, at least. He would see Abigail and spend time with Hannibal and a little part he buried deep in the pit of his stomach was crowing that he'd be together with his family. But entertaining those thoughts was dangerous since he was trying not to belong to anyone and technically, so was Abigail. They were both under Hannibal's care only in a professional capacity. Will was determined to have it remain professional as long as he could.

 

“Better be,” Jack said.

 

It wasn't precisely a threat, more of a notice that Will was treading on thin ice at the moment. He could live with that.

 

He wasn't sure if he could live with the sleep walking that was leaving him ragged and worn out, his teaching was slipping. His concentration and focus was beginning to unravel in his day to day. But he was trying, trying not to acknowledge the nights he woke up with an aching body, knowing the hole in his orchard was growing steadily larger. Probably child sized now but he didn't want to look when he was awake, it was hard enough when he was asleep. He tried to lock the door, he considered a sleeping bag but it seemed too morbid. Like a coffin or a poor man's straight jacket.

 

He tried to clear his head the night before Hannibal's dinner but did a poor job of it. He dreamt about Abigail feeding the beast while it sat on top of him with flowers and red honey that dripped from her hands like blood. He heard the shovelling and knew in the dream world that his body was digging without him. That he had to stop it, somehow. Just like with the Ripper and the strange case of Tobias Budge there was some essential piece missed that he can't catch but he knows he must, or all the things he love will be buried in a grave so deep he'll never, ever find them.

 

By the time Saturday evening arrives, he'd had so little restful sleep the past week he felt like a ghost. He saw his own face in the mirror in his bathroom and was surprised by his paleness. He wondered when he got so thin (he admittedly hadn't been eating regular meals since Hobbs but he'd thought he'd had it under control, until Cheryl White came along and upset the delicate equilibrium he had maintained). He readied himself as best he could and left with the intent to at least be there for Abigail.

 

The dinner Hannibal prepared for them was trout stuffed with a gamey mix of field berries, grains and a meat Will can't quite discern from taste alone. He thinks it might be deer or moose, considering the unusual texture. It's warming and wintry all at once and paired beautifully with the fresh fingerling potatoes and fancy green salad Hannibal has prepared, covered in the best dressing Will had ever tasted. They sat around Hannibal's large table at one end, the three of them crowded together around lit candles and reflected darkness coming in from the dim wintry night outside.

 

“If Dr. Bloom were here,” Abigail said, “It would almost be like...”

 

“A family,” Will said.

 

“This time Will has provided for us,” Hannibal said, “we're already bucking conventions.”

 

Abigail used her fork to lift the remains of her trout. It was delicious, very little has been left on anyone's plate. Will is convinced Hannibal could make a perfect meal out of just about anything but cold water trout is especially good in the winter, since the fat on the fish melts into the meat while cooking and makes them particularly juicy.

 

“Oh,” said Abigail, “do you hunt too?”

 

“No,” Will said, “Just fishing.”

 

“It's the same idea isn't it,” Abigail said, “using a lure and stalking.”

 

“In a way,” he said, “but you have to know the river to find a spot to cast.”

 

“It tries the patience,” Hannibal said, “waiting for the right catch to swim by. I never had the taste for it, myself.”

 

“I can't see you fishing,” Abigail said, “maybe hunting.”

 

“With a bow and arrow,” Hannibal said, as he smiled.

 

It was an amusing image, though Will thought that Hannibal would likely use one of the very modern mechanical bows and not the Native American set he imagined.

 

“Right,” Will said.

 

Abigail laughed. It was a musical, peaceful sound. It shook Will to the centre of himself and it took him a minute to reign in the absolute devotion he suddenly felt. Will knows what happens when that goes too far, after all, he'd shot the result nine times.

 

“Making the lures is the best part anyway,” Will said, “at least, that's what I liked most as a kid.”

 

“What are they,” Abigail asked, “feathers and things?”

 

“Parts of animals,” Will said, “like venison and rawhide, feathers, beads, whatever feels lucky at the time.”

 

“And whatever seems the most beautiful,” Hannibal said, “Will's lures are very fine, I've seen them in person. Not purely functional at all.”

 

Will frowned, “they do all right in the water, that's what matters. I'm not much of an artist.”

 

“Everyone has the propensity for art,” Hannibal said, “it comes out in as many ways as there are people.”

 

Will didn't know why but he suddenly felt uneasy. He always did when there were words being spoken that he couldn't hear.

 

“Not always pleasantly,” Will said.

 

He could feel Abigail watching him and he dropped his gaze to his food. It was bad form to bring up what they both knew he was thinking about when he looked at the skeletal remains of their dinner. The whole trout picked apart and torn with their forks into pieces.

 

They were doing the dishes together when Hannibal went upstairs. In close quarters with no one around to hear them but each other, Abigail asked the inevitable question.

 

“Do you know you're-,” she said, hesitantly.

 

“Yes,” Will said, before she could finish.

 

Abigail looked down at the dishes studiously for some minutes before she worked up enough courage to ask. He had been waiting for it all night.

 

“Can I?” she asked him.

 

Will put down the wine glass he was drying that he had conspicuously not drunk from the entire night and nodded. He leaned against the counter and tilted his head and let Abigail press her cold nose to his throat while she stood on the tip of her toes. He felt the small shiver of air against his neck before she pulled back.

 

“It's too weak to tell when,” she said, “how long have you been?”

 

“Almost two months,” Will said, “not very long.”

 

“Have you ever, you know,” Abigail said, “had a kid?”

 

“No,” said Will.

 

“Guess sometimes people find that weird,” Abigail said.

 

“Not always,” Will said, “I don't really seem like the baby type.”

 

“No,” Abigail laughed a little, “not really.”

 

Will stared at his hands while he waited for Abigail to find the words for her next question.

 

“Was it,” she asked, “okay?”

 

“Yeah,” Will said, “I wanted to do it, so I did.”

 

Abigail nodded, “I think I understand.”

 

“Nothing says you have to until you're ready,” Will said.

 

“Yeah,” Abigail said, “I know. Sometimes people at the hospital, they don't get it. I don't even know if I want kids and they talk about it like it's my future. The only future I've got left.”

 

“It doesn't have to be,” Will said, “I promise this will all go away. Years from now you'll look back on this and it'll seem almost unreal.”

 

“Like it happened to somebody else,” Abigail said.

 

She looked hesitant, like she had something more to say.

 

“I think,” she said, “I can probably guess who the father was. But I won't say anything if you aren't going to.”

 

Will exhaled, “he already knows.”

 

“Wouldn't you get in trouble,” Abigail asked, “or he would? His license...”

 

“I wasn't ever officially his patient,” Will said, “Please, don't say anything to Dr. Bloom I'd like to tell her myself.”

 

Abigail wasn't often self conscious but sometimes she had moments. As she stood and frowned at the ground, her eyes looked everywhere but at Will. He has the most awful, dread feeling that there's something she's not telling him. Something he could find out for himself if he wanted, if he could pull the illusion apart without hurting either of them.

 

“I guess we all have secrets now,” Abigail said.

 

“Do you have secrets,” Will asked, “that you're not telling me?”

 

Abigail shook her head as her shoulders trembled. Will felt his stomach lurch with fear.

 

“Abigail,” Will said, “you can tell me. Anything.”

 

It was a lie, she couldn't. Not without breaking the fragile glass halo he had erected over her head.

 

“I'm not ready,” she said.

 

“When you are you can tell me,” Will said, “I promise.”

 

Her gaze cast suspicion on him, it's painful. Like he's being judged for a crime he didn't commit.

 

“Can you protect me,” Abigail asked, “no matter what?”

 

It was a frightening request. He would try to honour it.

 

“Yes,” Will said, “no matter what.”

 

She hesitated before nearly throwing herself into his arms. She was warm and soft and smelled like a child, a daughter's sweet omega smell. Will thinks with a great and powerful longing that she deserved much better than what she got. But he holds her tight none the less, knowing that the scent she's picking up from him is naturally comforting to a young omega. Even if it reminded her of her actual mother, the one that stole everything away from her because of his selfishness. Will knows he won't be as selfish to Abigail or his impending child. Or the tethers he has his boats tied to will surely fall apart under the waves crashing against their moors. His foundations are old and crumbling and made of sand, his ability to rebuild them is tattered and worn like the sails on an old schooner. But he would for her, no matter what she told him.

 

Hannibal had been watching them, Will saw his silhouette over Abigail's shoulder looming in the dim hallway. He's holding Abigail's bag she had brought with her, as their evening is about to end. Will doesn't want it to end. Abigail is at this point the only light in his life, a beacon in the dark.

 

It would kill him to lose her.

 

 

 


	3. Destroyed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello. 
> 
> This was in editing hell for months, sorry about that. This is where we begin the dark descent of this series. Warnings for implied non-con (but not the way you might think), gore, violence, general nastiness, hostage situations, implied murder.

 

III

 

“I volunteered at a dog shelter,” Will said, “when I first went to college.”

 

The assuring comfort of Hannibal's office was basted in red the colour of rich, fresh blood. It throbbed in his eyes like a living womb that Will could rest in.

 

“Dogs prepared me for people. You'll never know just how chaotic things can get until a doberman is staring you down, unsure if it wants to bite your face off or be your friend. In New Orleans I worked an area that had tenement buildings,” Will said, “poverty in the country is genteel by comparison. What it makes people do is unreal, things that are absolutely unthinkable in ordinary circumstances. It was like being in a war zone. Fortunately it's possible to reason with people, with dogs not so much.”

 

In the dim light in an office in Baltimore, Maryland, Will remembered the sound tenement doors made when they were kicked in, the frightened beta women who always seemed to have it worse than anyone else, the smell of garbage and bilge water and day old corpses in the dirty canals. But underneath all the darkness, there had been hope that a better future could be made. Will remembered kindness from children, from adults who offered him information at great expense to their safety so he could do his job and find the killers that haunted the poorest drags to the shining business districts in New Orleans.

 

“Why did you leave the first time?” Hannibal asked him.

 

“I was stabbed,” Will said, “a young beta with a drug stash became jumpy. I couldn't shoot him, he was just a kid. It was a problem that I couldn't shoot.”

 

“Reasonable force,” Hannibal said, “it's the motto of law enforcement all over the world.”

 

“Yeah well,” Will said, “I couldn't pull the trigger often enough and they took it as a sign that I wasn't cut out for the job.”

 

“Surely,” Hannibal said, “there were other factors.”

 

The days welled up in unfortunate clarity. The questions from his superiors, the doubt of his abilities as an officer. The addictive quality of the praise he got from his supervisors. He'd felt he had to prove himself in every way, tax himself until the near breaking point.

 

“I pushed too hard even when it wasn't needed, when it didn't always work I became depressed,” Will admits, “teamwork wasn't my forte. A million other minor issues that came to a head when I didn't blow away a fourteen year old boy with a switch blade.”

 

“You miss the time you spent in New Orleans,” Hannibal said, “while resenting it.”

 

“Yes,” Will said, “walking the beat there was terrible. Homicide was better but there were gangs you had to pay off to get anything done and it was a mess going into a crime scene in a hot area. But it felt like...I was making a difference.”

 

“And so you returned when Jack called,” Hannibal said.

 

“I left things undone,” Will said, “I feel like I'm getting a second chance.”

 

They exist in the growing twilight of an ending day. Will knows something in his life is about to come to an end as he is due any day to start smelling like the man in front of him and their secret when exposed will change everything.

 

“Will,” Hannibal said, “you must seriously consider what I'm about to say.”

 

Will flicked his gaze to Hannibal. He was very concerned, his expression serious.

 

“All right,” Will said apprehensively.

 

Hannibal exhaled, whatever he was about to express seemed difficult for him.

 

“In three months Jack will be compelled to remove you from fieldwork. Your teaching is in shambles because of his interference, the bureau will likely consider it prudent to have you put on long term leave. The prognosis concerning your ability to continue working in this way isn't positive. There is nothing theoretically wrong with your ability to cope but emotionally it's obvious that the strain is becoming too much. I'm strongly suggesting a leave of absence when fieldwork no longer becomes an option for you.”

 

It was a dreaded prognosis.

 

“That's not an option,” Will said.

 

“It must become an option. In a few weeks I'll hardly be in a position to offer you officially condoned professional care,” Hannibal reminded him, “I'll refer you to another specialist but any progress we've made will have to continue from there. And they will not be as liberal in their interpretation of Jack's requirements for your continued investigations.”

 

The terror that lurched through his gut propelled him to his feet.

 

“I can't stop!” Will said, “People will die.”

 

Hannibal viewed him placidly, he had expected this. Will snarled in irritation.

 

“There are other capable specialists who will take over,” Hannibal said, “a leave of absence suggests impermanence, the possibility of returning is implied. Why are you so reluctant to accept time away?”

 

Will shook as he paced, his gestures aberrant and jerky.

 

“Because,” Will tried to articulate, “this is important but-”

 

“Because if you take a leave of absence to have a child,” Hannibal said, “you may not wish to come back.”

 

Will let out a shaky breath.

 

“I worked hard,” Will said, “to get this far.”

 

“No one would ever doubt that,” Hannibal said, “I read your file. The success rate you acquired in homicide was impressive.”

 

Will had distinguished himself enough on the beat in New Orleans to be promoted to homicide in under five years. He had kept a low profile outside the office, his professional life had always been impeccable. Will acknowledged that his personal life had been a mess since college and never improved, the small dramas of break ups and missed dates because of work and accusations of keeping a distance were like tiny pin pricks on his skin. They drew blood but healed quickly. He had never screwed up so badly until now.

 

“I can't throw it away,” Will said, “over something so-”

 

“Omegan?” Hannibal supplied, “Life choices other people make each and every day?”

 

Will was defeated, he took back his seat. He regarded Hannibal with some trepidation, who looked back at him with a sense of genuine compassion.

 

Hannibal asked, “what hurts the most about being who you are?”

 

It had grown dark outside, the room was washed in a deep blood hue like an ocean darkening at the edges. Will had begun to see the shapes of sharks in the water, as his raft crumbled at the edges.

 

“I never want to be what they expect,” Will said, “I don't hate that I'm omega but I hate the way people look at me.”

 

“A health professional misdiagnosed body dysmorphia,” Hannibal correctly surmised, “that must have been unpleasant.”

 

“I doubted for a while what I wanted but it turns out that I have a problem with society's expectations,” Will said, “not with myself. I accept who and what I am, Doctor. They suggested I go on suppressants but that wasn't me, I didn't want to cut out part of my life. Accepting that I was different was their problem, not mine.”

 

Will knows that he's radiating closure and hostility, his arms are crossed and his muscles taught even while he's sitting. But he finds it difficult to broach the subject he's been circling around in every professional environment he's been dumped into. It's embarrassing and personal, not something Will wants to acknowledge let alone talk about.

 

“When I applied for college,” Will said, “my guidance councillor suggested I get pregnant and use the adoption money to pay my tuition fees.”

 

“In an underprivileged area it's not unheard of, though an antiquated assumption. Beta couples are desperate for children, it provides opportunities to omegas that may not be available to them otherwise,” Hannibal said.

 

“You agree with that kind of thinking?” Will asked.

 

“I hardly find it an appropriate suggestion to a high school senior with no inclinations in that regard,” Hannibal said, “an individual's struggle to succeed can be met with many obstacles and each individual must find their own way to survive. But that wasn't your situation or your goal.”

 

“No,” Will said, “I didn't bond even when I was a kid, nobody was keen on that one either.”

 

“That must have been difficult,” Hannibal said, “would you know what a bond felt like if you had one?”

 

Will shrugged. He probably wouldn't, at least not until it had gone on for a very long time. Bonds were tentative things, fragile at first, they only grew stronger with exposure over a long enough time period. People broke and reformed new bonds all the time, omegas were notorious for having multiple bonds at once. An omega without any bonds at all was considered very eccentric indeed.

 

“I didn't know my mother and that probably was the only real bond I ever had,” Will said.

 

“She abandoned you?” Hannibal said.

 

“For my own good,” Will said, “my father was a difficult man to live with. I heard stories, they probably never got along. She dumped me on him and left before their fighting could do any real damage. Smart woman.”

 

The old stereotypes were well preserved in the backwater towns Will found himself in with his father. That omegas were bad nurturers, that they were flighty and inconstant, that they weren't good for much beyond copious amounts of sex and children. That they were only of any value locked in a nuclear family with an alpha at the head and a few betas around to look after their numerous offspring and more numerous infidelities.

 

“Your father was a distant, isolated alpha,” Hannibal said, “it wouldn't be difficult to see why you weren't particularly interested in bonding.”

 

Alphas were a mixed bag; they could have family bonds, romantic bonds and even one-sided bonds. It was generally accepted that they didn't bond very often, which is why romantic songs and poetry had so much sympathy for a jilted alpha and a lot less sympathy for an omega in the same position. It was a long running historical precedent that bled into modern life and tainted it with stereotypes and hard coded expectations. Will rejected all of it, his father had in turn rejected him.

 

Will blinked away the stinging behind his eyes.

 

“Sometimes,” Will said, “I wanted to. But I didn't know how.”

 

Will trailed off, his thoughts turning dark.

 

He hated that no matter who he dated his hips were always the first thing anybody looked at, like he was a curiosity because he hadn't popped one out by the time he was thirty. Male omegas had a biological indicator that females didn't; due to their narrow birth canal the pelvic bone would tilt slightly right before giving birth and it would remain that way after the first child. It changed the way weight was born in a man's stride. Will had heard it referred to medically as a maternal gait, though he had also heard it called much ruder terms in less congenial company. It wasn't an element of pride that Will had dismissed other omegas based on these characteristics, as much as any hardline alpha supremest had dismissed him as damaged because he hadn't fulfilled an assumed biological destiny. And his beta girlfriends, no matter how open and accepting at first, quickly realized that Will was an omega anomaly in more ways than one. The bond was a hurdle he just couldn't seem to cross.

 

“Loneliness is a terrible experience,” Hannibal said.

 

“Never minded the isolation before,” Will said, “I guess it finally got to me.”

 

The ugly truth that Will had to face was that he might not be able to go it alone, anymore.

 

“And yet,” Will said, “I don't know if it's me looking for this or someone else. The first night we were -together, I kept slipping in and out of other people's heads. I thought it might be because I had snapped, that I finally lost my mind.”

 

“And afterwords?” Hannibal prods gently.

 

“The doctor said I was fine, a minor infection that muddied the waters,” Will said, “It was a bad heat, worse than I've ever experienced but I knew who I was and what I wanted.”

 

“And it was our child you wanted,” Hannibal said.  
  
“Yes,” Will said.

 

Will can't explain what he felt that day. He may have been motivated by Cheryl White's desperate needs and propelled by her murderous designs to take the first steps but the rest had been all him. A sickeningly high hormone flush in his brain that had spiralled out of control, possibly egged on by the infection he had begun to suffer and exacerbated by his natural inclinations to close himself off to romantic possibilities, alpha or otherwise. Not that heat had ever felt particularly romantic, he wasn't really like that in the first place. Hannibal was the more effete out of the two of them, interested in fine food and classical music and soft, lingering touches.

 

“Will,” Hannibal said, “are you ready to face the future?”

 

“As ready as I'll ever be,” Will said.

 

It's close enough to the truth to be easy and comfortable. Because Will can't be sure of anything, especially not now standing on the precipice of enormous change. He doesn't know what he's going to do, he'll be off field work in some months as expected, that much he can count on. Hannibal is going to face some very hard scrutiny from Jack, he has risked his professional reputation to do this thing with Will. The motivations aren't clear to Will but he understands emotional privacy and that there are corners on the painting he has come to visualise as Hannibal's thinking that aren't quite rendered yet. The gaps that are missing are almost exciting, he enjoys not being able to peer too deeply, it creates an ability to hold himself back from knowing ugly things (though Will isn't sure he would find anything about Hannibal truly repellent, he's been so good to him, to Abigail, to Alana who he has come to think of protectively as a valued friend).

 

“Then it seems apparent,” Hannibal said, “that the actions you have committed the last few months are all your own.”

 

“It's hard to admit,” Will said.

 

They saw each other in the dusky light. The shadows were so deep Will could only see the light reflecting off of Hannibal's light hair as his eyes glinted in the dark like a predatory cat.

 

_His perfect predator._

 

Will laughed darkly, “I thought I knew what kind of crazy I was. Now, I have my doubts.”

 

“You're not crazy,” Hannibal said bemused, “misunderstood, perhaps. As so many are.”

 

Will had hated these sessions at first but he had to admit after their camaraderie had developed enough for him to become comfortable, he began to look forward to them. It was nice being recognized for who and what he was, even if it was only for a few hours a week. Will hadn't seen himself as a romantic or someone remotely capable of loving in a deeply romantic sense. It was a hard pill to swallow when he was twenty and desperate to seem normal despite how abnormal he felt. But he felt a strong attraction to the alpha sitting in front of him, though they may have little in common on the surface, there was something to their relationship that went beyond ordinary friendship and even, ordinary sex. Will is loathe to break this easy peace but under the circumstances it's impossible to make any other choice.

 

“Can we do something,” Will said at the end of the session, “anything. Together. Sometime?”

 

Will felt like he was tripping over himself to say what he actually meant.

 

 _I don't want a relationship with all the stickiness that implies but I want_ something _. Please give me something I can give back._

 

Hannibal it seemed had gotten the message. A pleased if bashful smile played across his face, Will wondered if he was seeing just a tiny iota of what it might have looked like when Hannibal was a boy. It was a rare and precious sight.

 

“Anytime,” Hannibal said, “with you.”

 

The following weekend had been something that could have filled a tawdry romance novel but none of it had been cheapened by flowery prose or dewy eyed confessions. Will had known companionship in his house had managed to encourage Hannibal to curl up with him by the space heater with his dogs. They were all tiny memories of peace that Will clung to in the following week, as events began to take a grim turn. There had been break in on FBI property and a storage unit that had been holding items pending clearance for investigations had been robbed of two objects.

 

“Two violins,” Jack had said on the phone, “one of them was broken.”

 

“The broken one was probably an antique,” Will said, “instruments are valuable to players. Just recently a Guarneri was auctioned for 18mil. Were there any deaths?”

 

“None, security guard just missed his exit. Good timing on his part. This isn't what we usually call you in for,” Jack reminded him, “but I'd like you to take a look, we're having problems with this guy's MO. Any lead we have on Budge is a lead on the ripper. I want to know what he's planning, if he's still in the area, if he has the intention to perform again. Whatever you can give us, we need.”

 

The man hunt, it seemed, was on.

 

“All right,” Will said.

 

The drive was torturous and he had stopped at the side of the road to rest his spinning head at least twice. Though his health seemed to be rapidly declining he would still finish the case, as it might be his last. His scent had begun to pick up and while he could vaguely smell Hannibal's presence, it wasn't quite the overwhelming scent of claiming that would come later. It was light enough that he could suggest he had spent the night at his house or lingered in Dr. Lecter's office and it would still be somewhat of an excuse.

 

At least when he arrived, he wasn't looking at a murder scene.

 

“You ok?” Jack asked, “you sound tired.”

 

“Yeah,” Will said, “morning sickness, dogs were riled up.”

 

The medications had run out and now it seemed his muscle memory was resisting any attempts to relieve his aching joints. It was possible he had another infection, or perhaps it hadn't been an infection at all. These things were distinct possibilities but he was feeling so poorly and wrung out from his teaching and commuting that he couldn't spare time to visit a doctor when he had his dogs to wrangle and his rapidly dwindling future to consider.

 

The lock was cut, the window hadn't been touched and the security alarm had been carefully disarmed. There was a chair in the corner of the room for the night watchman. The watchman would walk along the front of the units, alongside the back and then perch himself in the heated unit for a breather until he began the process again. All of the items in the storage unit were high profile criminal cases and considered evidence or unlawful goods. Tobias Budge was a serial killer at large and therefore the contents of his entire shop had to be analyzed. The violins had been tossed haphazardly along with the rest, it had probably been an affront to Budge who so valued his musical instruments. In between the hard facts Will began to gather a picture of the man. It was patently shocking to Will that Tobias Budge was so absolutely superb at breaking and entering. The Ripper himself left more behind, at least ruined something on his entries into his victim's houses, more because the objects didn't matter than an active disregard. It said a lot about Budge's past.

 

“He's done this before,” Will said, “as a job. He's very, very good at this and still has access to proper equipment. There were bolt cutters, wire jumps and a portable electronic panel involved. Were all of Budge's assets seized?”

 

“The ones we knew about,” Jack confirmed.

 

Zeller was leaning against the wall, his itemizing gloves still on, as he watched them both. Will glared at him, while Zeller seemed to look smug, as though he had something to say. He was resisting the urge to blurt it out in front of Jack, which meant it was probably something Will didn't want to hear.

 

“He has a house,” Will said, “another one somewhere still in Maryland. Secluded, probably purchased years ago under a fake identity. Since we had border patrols looking for him, he likely didn't plan to leave until the situation cooled down. But these violins-”

 

“He couldn't resist coming back for them,” Jack said.

 

“Precisely. Look for a false name, or actually it could be his real name,” Will said.

 

“You think Tobias Budge is a fake name?” Jack asked.

 

“I think Tobias Hume the seventeenth century soldier musician and Tobias Budge the murderous owner of a string shop is too much of a coincidence not to be pursued,” Will said.

 

“We already looked up his finger prints,” Jack said, “no match so he's never been caught.”

 

“No that's not it,” Will said, “look for a man with experience in investigation services, mall security, night watchmen, locksmith, anything related to these fields. Tobias Budge put himself through his vocation somehow, the way we all did.”

 

Will paused in his picture.

 

“The way the Ripper did too,” Will said, “they're all self made men. They've all had other lives before this one and that's how we'll see who they are now.”

 

The way he had another life before the one that was currently growing inside of him.

 

“Good work,” Jack said, “if we catch Budge, do you think he'll offer up anything on the Ripper?”

 

Will looked at the ground, no rocks moved, no footprints. Just as it had been the moment Budge had crept inside to take back what had belonged to him. It was incredible artistry to move that silently. Budge's victims had been highly specific, targeted, moved in the dead of night and the quiet points between wakefulness and sleep. The victims never knew they had been abducted, might not even know that the day they had prior was their last because that wasn't the point. The point had been to make great music out of their vile innards so whatever their lives had been could be transformed into art. A similar goal to the ripper but a much different philosophy behind it. The Ripper shamed and exposed his victims with high art, Budge hid them under the guise of a virtuoso performance.

 

“I think he'll sing it from the mountain tops,” Will said, “if we ever get him in custody. He wants to perform. He wants the Ripper to know he's a virtuoso. And he wants us to be the orchestra to back that up.”

 

Jack's expression turns hungry and Will think he sees a little of the alpha hunter under his professional exterior.

 

“That's good Will,” Jack said, “very good.”

 

“If you'll excuse me,” Will said, as the dizziness kicked up, “I need to go pass out for a few hours.”

 

“Where are you staying?” Jack asked.

 

“Nowhere,” Will said, “just going to see the psychiatrist you so graciously provided. See if I can borrow his couch.”

 

Will brushed passed Zeller who grabbed his arm as he went by. Will glared at his hand and then glared straight at him.

 

“Problem?” Will said.

 

“Can we talk?” Zeller said, “out back. Away from the rest of the team?”

 

“About what,” Will said.

 

“Trust me,” Zeller said, “you want this said somewhere Price can't hear.”

 

Will huffed in disgust but allowed himself to be led behind the storage area towards the car park. There were very few people on the streets as it was an industrial part of town and nearing evening. Most of the workers had gone home and it was too early for the night shift to begin. They were, essentially, alone.

 

“The spray you jam up your nose constantly, I use the alpha brand,” Zeller said, “I could smell him on you a while ago. You and Dr. Lecter...”

 

It spun Will, like a smack to the face. Surprise, incredulity but really, he shouldn't have thought his luck would hold out this long.

 

“Are you threatening to report me?” Will said.

 

“No,” Zeller said, “not unless you want me to.”

 

“Explain,” Will said.

 

“You aren't well,” Zeller said.

 

Will was affronted but Zeller put up his hands in exasperation.

 

“Health-wise for pete's sake, anybody can see that,” Zeller continued, “you look like shit all the time, barely eat. A pregnant person is supposed to gain weight not lose ten pounds in two weeks.”

 

“I was sick a month ago” Will said, “now you're concerned?”

 

Will could have gone further, he could have addressed Zeller in a mocking tone, highlighted his insecurities (and even for an alpha, they were legion) but instead he held back. For some reason he had the sense to know Zeller was, in his misguided way, trying to help him.

 

“I wonder how good your Doctor is,” Zeller said, “you should be in the hospital getting tests.”

 

Zeller didn't mean to be crass and cruel, he covered up his pain with humour. Will felt a scrap of pity for him sometimes, despite their poor relationship.

 

Will said, “I think my infection came back maybe there's a problem, I don't know. I haven't exactly had time to find out.”

 

“Christ, Graham,” Zeller said, “You could have a bacterial infection, you could have something really serious. Don't you care? Not even about your-,”

 

Will let out a snarl, because Zeller had found his sore spot. He wasn't sure about anything, he just wasn't anymore and no amount of coddling from a medical professional could change that.

 

“Of course,” Will said, “I care. About that.”

 

“I went to med school Will,” Zeller said, “I know what a healthy omega looks like. You're not healthy, not by a long shot. And Dr. Lecter should have known before it got this far.”

 

Will damned his empathy because he suddenly knew why Zeller was doing this. He was attracted to him and was trying to lend him a hand. Unfortunately, he was also a prick and had quickly veered off from attraction to meddling the way every single damn alpha in his life had. And now he was trying to put his mark on Will because Hannibal had gotten there first.

 

“Leave him out of this,” Will spat.

 

“Just saying,” Zeller said, “if you were my omega-”

 

“I'm not anybody's anything,” Will said, “So screw off.”

 

The words had barely left his mouth before his world turned blank and empty. Will felt his memories walk away, as if they were strangers. His sense of self fled into the shadowy corners of the industrial buildings that stood like sentinels on watch, disappeared into the footsteps that had echoed here last night. They were like singular marbles dropping from his pocket one by one, until he could only recall a glowing shape that hovered between his vision as it left fiery footsteps in its wake. Was it Budge or....someone else? His vision suddenly tilted and spun, then blinked out.

 

When Will came to, he was on his back on the pavement and two faces were worriedly looking at him.

 

“Will?” Jack said, as he snapped his fingers.

 

Will looked up, confused.

 

“Yes?” he said.

 

“Stand back,” Jack announced, “Will, you're sick.”

 

“I know,” Will said groggily, “what happened?”

 

“You fell over like a dead weight,” Zeller said, “I saw you drop.”

 

Zeller helped him to a sitting position and touched his forehead.

 

“You're burning up,” Zeller said, “it's an infection, gotta be.”

 

Will shook off his hand.

 

“Z” Jack said, “you're the closest we've got to medical. Drive Will to his doctor.”

 

“What?” Zeller said.

 

“Or take him to emergency, your choice. But I think it'll be quicker if you get him to his doctor's office, I'll call her up and she'll make the time.”

 

“Of course she will,” Zeller muttered under his breath.

 

Will staggered to his feet and shook off Zeller's help.

 

“If you need anything,” Zeller said, making an effort not to sound too put-out, “I've got an extensive first aid kit in my car. Anti-nauseates. Stuff like that.”

 

“Will,” Jack said, “you go to the doctor's and if anything comes up, let me know.”

 

“Easy,” Zeller said, “he's not looking so good. Maybe we need an ambulance.”

 

The alphas were crowding him again, the rancid stink of their hackles created a potent accelerate to Will's already compromised system. There was a reason Jack didn't want an ambulance, he wasn't entirely sure Will's problems were physical. Letting a mentally unbalanced pregnant omega onto crime scenes was crossing territory the FBI would deeply frown upon. It was a self interested decision but considering what was at stake, Will couldn't blame him. They were close, Will could feel it. If they found Budge they would find the Ripper and that was a prize neither he nor Jack could compromise.

 

“No ambulances,” Will said, “I don't want your help, Zeller.”

 

“But it's appreciated,” Jack said, “and desperately needed.”

 

Will whirled his head to face Jack for a rebuttal but what he saw written all over his face made him pause. He could see the clock ticking away on his features, the numbers counting down how long Will could be of use to him in catching the Ripper, until Will would be forced to resign from fieldwork temporarily. Jack had decided long ago that temporarily would likely mean that Will wouldn't return. It unsettled Will that he could see Jack so unhappy and resigned. And Will felt used and dismayed in return, he wasn't the type to give up everything he'd worked for so easily. It was like he was being led into a deep, bottomless pit and then abandoned with nothing and no one for company.

 

“I'm not giving up,” Will said in a low voice, “so don't give up on me.”

 

Jack stared long and hard at him.

 

“It might not be possible to make that choice anymore,” Jack said.

 

Zeller helped him into his car. They sat together in silence for a few minutes.

 

“This is bullshit,” Zeller said as he put the car into drive, “You're messed up, Graham, leaving it this long.”

 

“Shut up,” Will mumbled as his head lolled against the plush seat of his car.

 

Will could feel the sweat as it gathered at the back of his neck and slid slowly down his back. He is so beyond any of Zeller's shit, his day has been dashed to pieces and the remains of it are quickly being burned by his temperature as it rapidly climbs. He closed his eyes briefly. The motion of the car rolled over him, easing the pain, calming his nausea. He felt sleepy, the familiar scent of his dogs embedded into the upholstery lulling him into a near catatonic state.

 

“Graham,” he heard his name called, “Graham...Will Graham! For fuck's sake...!”

 

“What,” He croaked.

 

The scenery had changed, he was in the back of his truck stretched out over the cramped interior.

 

“Where am I?” Will asked.

 

He was feeling it again, the disassociation, the strange burning figure in the darkness that lingered at the edges of his sight.

 

“I don't give a shit about Crawford,” Zeller said, “we're getting an ambulance.”

 

“No,” Will hissed, “not when we're this close!”

 

He grabbed Zeller's retreating shoulders and they struggled in the confined space until Will's elbow accidentally smashed Zeller's mouth. The blood spatters across the interior, a fine spray and it shocks into Will as though it's something he's seen before. Like a dream he can't quite place.

 

Will is burning and feeling blown out, like all the living blood has left his body. He doesn't know what he's doing, he can barely understand the impulse. It's like a heat but not, it burns him and leaves him shaking with fear. The sweat is dripping down his neck and he's sure Zellar can smell it; the arousal and the disgust and the sickness, heavy and thick.

 

“Jesus, Graham,” Zeller said, as his lip sluggishly bled.

 

“Fuck me,” Will hissed.

 

He hardly believed what had just come out of his mouth.

 

“I can't do that Graham,” Zeller said as his voice shook, “I'd really, really like to but-”

 

Will heard a laugh come out of his throat that didn't sound like himself.

 

“What good are you to me if you can't,” Will said.

 

Zeller might not have understood him but it didn't take much for Will to understand Zeller since he was an open book; the definition of a low grade alpha who had nursed his feelings of inadequacy to the third degree. Will could see the failed relationships, disappointed lovers and dismayed figures in Zellar's life, exactly who they were didn't matter but Zeller's feelings about them did. To temper it, Zeller had a vicious turnaround when confronted with possible failure. People who he thought might have the potential to be better than him. He had wanted Will in the past because he thought Will was an omega that had fought the natural order and could only lose, he hated Will because in spite of Zeller's initial predictions he had become trusted in the FBI in a way Zeller wasn't. He wanted to help Will because he smelled weakness and like all predators, became aroused when the air was scented with blood.

 

He tells Zeller as much in fewer and more brutal words.

 

“Fuck you Graham,” Zeller hissed between gritted teeth.

 

He shoved Will onto his back, it's a rough fall and the vehicle shakes from it. The trees are darkening outside the windows, it's a lonely country road. No one will be by for hours. And Zeller is looking at Will like he did the first day Will showed up at the BUI with his 'special investigator' badge on full display, smouldering with hate and unresolved sexual attraction.

 

“You're an ass,” Will said, “how can anyone stand you?”

 

Will pressed his mouth brutally against Zeller's. It was the same awful impulse that had him punching the man in the concert hall, the brutal, mean violence of it all an encouragement instead of a detriment to Will's arousal. Will distantly acknowledges that he's not in his right mind anymore, that he's not making a good decision. But he can't stop, it's taking over him. It's not like any heat he's ever felt and the burning sensation rolls over him in repeated waves. Will is nearing three months pregnant and shouldn't be feeling this but he is and Zeller is right there with a knot that's ready and he doesn't give a shit about Hannibal right now.

 

“Fuck me,” Will groans into his ear, “please.”

 

“Will,” Zeller said, “I can't. Pull yourself together, special agent Graham.”

 

He used his official title to try and gather Will's senses but he's much too gone for that now. Too hungry and lost, entirely unfocused. Not himself at all.

 

“What good are you if you can't,” Will hissed again, between gritted teeth.

 

He grabbed Zeller's neck and squeezed, watched his face morph from pleasure to pain and the shift as his eyes rolled back into desperation. The blood from his lip dripped sluggishly down his chin and onto Will's wrists. But instead of Zeller, it was Will who suddenly went dark.

 

It was like coming out of a deep pool. Will is gradually aware he's not in a car, he's not at the hospital or the medical office. He's in his house, he can smell his dogs. The simple facts he has acknowledged provide for him a keystone to build his sanity around. These are little symbols he has not gone off the rails entirely, not yet. Not when wet, curious noses pushed at his fingers that dangled over the edge of his own couch.

 

When he sat up by leaning on his messy coffee table, pill bottles clattered as he hit them. Will picked one up and examined it. They all have his name on it, a complicated array of antibiotics, anti-nauseates and pre-natal vitamins. Will stared very hard at the bottles, checked their date (today, the afternoon just as he had suspected). Hours were missing from his life but the evidence would tell him exactly what had happened. He had been to his doctor's, Zeller had likely driven him there. Will put his head in his hands, what had he done to Zeller...? Had it been just a dream? He isn't well, the heat against his hands from his forehead displays that clearly enough. It could have been a fevered hallucination. Though if he had been that compromised, it's a miracle he's not in the hospital.

 

Will peaked through his kitchen window and saw his car in the driveway, just as it should be. He checked his phone. There were two messages left in the last five hours. Will hesitantly put his phone to his ear and listened.

 

_Hi Will. Sorry I took so long to call back. I was very surprised to see your resignation...all right, maybe surprised isn't the word. Dismayed is a better one, considering your speciality..._

 

Will recognized the voice as his boss, Julia Corsica, an alpha and the head of the education department at Quantico. She had been persistent in trying to hire him the moment he had been let go from homicide. He owed a lot to her, including a really great cover letter that had landed him the job.

 

_But I understand the demands of starting a family and dealing with persistent illness. If you ever want the job back, we'd love to have you as a part-time educator, Jack permitting of course._

 

There was a wryness in her voice, Jack and Julia had never gotten along, she hadn't approved of him when he began showing up and stealing Will from her classes.

 

_Anyway, best of luck to you. And don't be a stranger to my office Will, even if it seems tempting._

 

The call ended and Will sat on the couch looking at his phone for some long minutes. He had no recollection of resigning from his teaching position especially not days ago as the phone call implied. He sifted through the days, some long, some full and others...missing. He clicked next.

 

_Hey, Will..._

 

It was Jack. He sounded depressed.

 

_I'm sorry if I was hard on you the other day. Do you really think leaving the case now is the best course of action you've got? I knew you'd have to take a break sometime, we all did. But..._

 

And here Will could hear his long, hesitant inhale.

 

_We still need agents like you. So I hope you'll reconsider. Maybe talk to Dr. Lecter, it couldn't hurt. I'll be in touch. Stay safe._

 

Will checked his phone. He scrolled down the call history. Two calls made days apart were listed, one to Julia's office in Quantico, one to Jack's home phone number. Will considered their origins, they had obviously come from his phone. No one else could have resigned for him, unless they had a recording of his voice or...Will pinched the bridge of his nose. Everything ached, nothing makes sense. The dogs whimpered and nudged him with their noses.

 

“It's ok,” Will said, “it's going to be ok.”

 

Self comfort wasn't worth much when someone was doing something to him and he had no idea who they might be or what they might want. Will is certain that he didn't make those calls, and even unwell he would never pull out of his teaching position and his cases without good reason and a sound mind. Will winced as the pain in his forehead arched, he took three pain killers then closed his eyes and felt time melt away. He snapped them open when his dog's whines became too persistent to ignore.

 

The chair that had stood empty across from his couch had become occupied by a strange alpha. He took in the alpha's appearance; concert standard dress shirt and trousers, dark skin, tidy about his person to a neurotic degree if the creases on his pockets are anything to go by and the clarity of his chin. No five o'clock shadows or rumpled clothing despite this man being on the run for almost a month. That meant he had a safe house, a hideaway with basic supplies in a good area, somewhere the authorities wouldn't have bothered looking. Tobias Budge is sitting in his living room and Will is in a lot of trouble, and not just because of the company but also because he could feel the heavy, powerful drugs move through his veins like sludge. He's been injected with something. He holds his arm aloft, he can see the pin prick, the bastard had crept in while he was sleeping, defenceless and alone.

 

Will's first step is to try and get up but the pain in his skull and deluge of drugs leaves him helpless. Budge watched him with barely veiled amusement as he struggled with vicious intensity and instead, had to make do with resting his head on the arm of the couch. The dogs huddle around him protectively but even they aren't aware of the full danger he's in.

 

“I don't have any plans to kill you,” Budge said, “it's not as though you can do anything about me, the way you are now.”

 

The first wrong move a hostage can make is to panic. To maintain a sense of calm, Will counts the guns in his house. One in his bedroom a few dozen feet away, though it might as well be several thousand the way Will feels at the moment, heavy and sick. A Winchester rifle in the barn for hunting, two Winstons in the kitchen cabinet, and a glock under the bed in a secured box. He really has a lot of guns when he thinks about it. Too bad none of them are close enough to use on the invader occupying his home. He has gutting knives for fish in the kitchen, a razor in the bathroom if he takes apart his razor blade but that seems inefficient in his current condition. He wonders if vermin poison would do the trick but alphas have sharp noses, it would be a long shot at best. And he keeps that on a very high shelf in the storage cupboard so the dogs won't accidentally get at it.

 

Budge has been taking in the accoutrements of the room, Will recognized the same quick assessment that Hannibal and Jack had always employed. It's the tell tale sign of a psychoanalyst, always assessing the living situation of a client, the curious motives of the victims, psychotics, the person in their every day environment. Will has also done it himself many, many times. Budge is very clever and very smart, and Will has only begun to write his own psychological profile in his head to aid in his escape. He has no doubt his life will come to sticky end if he does not attempt to do something soon.

 

“Why,” Will asked, his throat dry, “are you doing this?”

 

“Agent Graham,” Budge said, “I'm here to discuss certain matters with a mutual friend of ours.”

 

Will laughed, he couldn't help it.

 

“Do you mean Jack?” Will asked, “I doubt we're on very friendly terms right now, considering.”

 

“I'm referring to Dr. Lecter,” Budge said.

 

This statement is much more worrying than the latter.

 

“You killed his patient,” Will said.

 

 _You're going to kill him next_ , he thought.

 

Budge smiled, “there's so much more to that story than what the FBI knows. Would you like to hear it Special Agent Graham?”

 

Dread crept low into his stomach.

 

“Do I want to,” Will asked, “or do I have much of a choice?”

 

“I think it's something you''ll find especially fascinating,” Budge said, “it's only fair, after all I read Dr. Lecter's notes on you, agent Graham.”

 

It was the kind of privacy violation that made Will writhe.

 

“It was extremely difficult to read so I hope you appreciate all the trouble I went to in order to construct an accurate psychological profile. Dr. Lecter is a very intelligent man and understands that patient notes are often not very private at all, especially concerning some of his more unbalanced clientele. Did you know that he writes his notes in a Lithuanian shorthand and then further makes them nearly illegible with diacritics in the reverse order? I dare say, the notes he hands over to the authorities on his more troublesome patients are not the notes he writes down later after his initial consultation. I wonder why,” and at this, Budge faced his gaze head on and the cold, beating heart of the serial killer is put on display for Will to see, “he took such pains to hide his true psychological profiles. They're very good, very accurate. I feel like you and I have been well acquainted over many years, though we've only met today.”

 

“You were a private investigator before a musician. Was the cryptanalysis an acquired skill,” Will said, “Or was it a strictly off the books interest?”

 

Budge smiled at him, he is extremely charming. Will can see why he was so successful for so many years without detection.

 

“Very perceptive. Night watchman was technically my first job,” Budge said, “It put me through college, helped me gain a lot of skills I might not have had otherwise. And for a brief time, when I wasn't sure if music was the right path for me, I dabbled as a freelance Investigator in a public firm. It was very boring work, Hollywood makes it seem so glamourous with noir film conspiracies but unfortunately the work is usually an idle spouse wondering if the omega is having an affair with the beta down the street. Hardly worth the time. My temperament is much more suited to music and art.”

 

“And murder,” Will said.

 

It explained a lot, explained many things. Musicians didn't come predisposed to breaking and entering, to silent organ harvests that go undetected. Budge had picked up the skills from somewhere, just as all serial killers did, as the Chesapeake Ripper had. Will wondered if Budge had also dabbled in the medical field for any length of time, perhaps a morgue technician, or an RN. The three of them really were self made men. Strangers in a strange land, exotic somehow though their exteriors would be unassuming. No one knew what Budge had been, no one would know the Ripper. No one had known about Will's tenacity for discovering the heartbeat of either until he had made himself visible through his work with the FBI.

 

“I'm beginning to understand what Dr. Lecter sees in you,” Budge said, “the way you think is quite curious, unlike most people. It must be lonely, it's a very desolate place to live for a single omega with no family. Though you apparently have plans to change that. If you need anything don't be ashamed to ask, I'm quite willing to keep my charge comfortable. I gain nothing from your torture.”

 

Will glanced at his dogs who were regarding the interloper with some curiosity. He fears for them most of all, for their kindness towards a man they didn't know enough to fear.

 

“I won't hurt them,” Budge said, “animal cruelty isn't my interest.”

 

Winston had gained courage and had lumbered over for a sniff and a pat on the head and Budge had obliged him by extending his hand.

 

“What is then,” Will said.

 

“Dogs have advantages to people,” Budge said, “they're very loyal and don't ask many questions. Loyalty is a great concern for you, I'm beginning to see why.”

 

“What if I try to escape,” Will said, “or kill you?”

 

“Then I'll kill you first,” Budge said, “gut you and let the dogs have the rest. I know where your guns are, or where they were.”

 

Budge smiled. Will quickly calculated which guns he was mostly likely to have found, the Winchester would have been missed. The barn is far away from the house closer to the woods which means if Will escapes the house he'll have to run for it until he can arm himself. His physical strength at peak is good, his FBI training hardly leaves him defenceless but Budge is a strong man, much larger than him. More akin to Hannibal's impressive build. Will could possibly injure him enough to slow him down but he is realistic in his assessment. It would take a lot more than a sick, highly trained omega to stop him.

 

“This can very unpleasant or quite reasonable,” the threat wasn't an idle one, “it's your choice.”

 

Will closed his eyes and rolled himself onto his back. He felt the pain ebb, it almost felt good with all of the adrenaline floating in his system, something to tell him he was still alive, “I'll accept your conditions.”

 

“I hope this won't be a long wait,” Budge said, “for your sake.”

 

The wait seemed endless but Tobias Budge was a very patient man. The medication Will had been given finally eased up, he could get up off the couch, use the bathroom, eat something if he liked. Budge shadows him at a polite distance wherever he goes, but they both know there's no escape when the windows are closed and the fields stretch on and on outside of Will's house into the dark, cold forests teeming with coyotes. He might not die immediately but the dogs would be ripped to shreds and Will won't have that. This is why he thinks, Budge chose to keep him inside with his animals acutely aware Will would be loathe to leave them to fend for themselves. He's read everything, has probably enough information to formulate a highly accurate psychological profile and assess Will's strengths and weaknesses. Will scrubs his face with cold water in the bathroom, his head is clearing and he can think. He stares at his face in the mirror and quietly slides a long, thin metal nail file from his bathroom cabinet into his pocket. It is the only weapon he will have the chance to get and he must choose carefully when to use it.

 

Budge appeared at the open door with an ice pack in his hand. He offered it to Will.

 

“Your face is swollen,” he said, “this might help.”

 

It's meant to disarm him, all the kindness. Will understands the theory behind captive practices. Some captors use brutality to keep their prisoners in line, others use kindness to catch them off guard. Budge is aware of Will's training and his abilities and he is absolutely on guard one hundred percent of the time. But he is trying to loosen Will's paranoia to keep him as close to placid as possible. So that when Budge has to kill him, it will come as a surprise. Will still takes the ice pack and retreats to the couch.

 

“If Dr. Lecter's not coming,” Will said from the couch pressing the ice pack to the side of his face, “he probably called the police.”

 

Budge brought over some crackers and cheese, sparse gatherings from Will's fridge. He took a few for himself and gently pushed them over to Will.

 

“You'd better eat in your condition,” he said, “I wouldn't want your infection to get worse.”

 

“You're feeding my dogs,” Will said, “and now you're feeding me? I hope it's not poisonous.”

 

Budge tossed a cracker onto the floor and Will watched as Winston and Buttercup warred over the morsel. No seizure or death throes were imminent.

 

“Are they allowed table food?” Budge asked, pointedly.

 

Will laughed, dark and mirthless.

 

“This is going to be the weirdest crime scene,” Will said, “if I live to see it.”

 

“Since you believe your death is inevitable,” Budge said, “would you like to know why this is happening to you?”

 

“Now that I can think,” Will said, “I could probably put it together myself, with the right pieces.”

 

Budge had become interested.

 

“That's what you lack,” Budge said, “from me, from the Ripper and from your dear Dr. Lecter, isn' it?”

 

“Yes,” Will said, because certainly something that Budge said was without pretence.

 

“Last weekend you spent with Dr. Lecter, here in this house,” Budge said, “I watched you from the woods. Well, some. Until the lights went out, I'm a curious man but I'm not rude.”

 

Will's neck still burned, as if they had kept their hands off each other until the house went dark. The man had invaded his privacy, his home, his life.

 

“Late at night, after you had fallen asleep Dr. Lecter left your bedroom, proceeded to dress himself and took a little dog out with him to the edges of your property. What's his name, the grey one with the basset hound nose?”

 

“Trotsky,” Will whispered, the dread growing heavier, “a student found him and named him, brought him to me.”

 

“It's a good name,” Budge said, amused, “he took the dog out because he needed its help to find something. As I watched, Dr. Lecter went out to a particular spot by a burned out tree with a twisted up shovel. He picked up the shovel and he proceeded to dig. Whatever he saw from his vantage point above the sizeable hole he had dug pleased him immensely. Do you have any idea what that was?”

 

“No,” Will said, “tell me.”

 

“A body,” Budge said, his eyes glimmering, “I went back and checked for myself. Do you know who put the body there? Who buried them?”

 

Will swallowed, “no.”

 

“You did,” Budge said, “and I know, because I watched you do it.”  


	4. Deconstructed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello. I don't know how I feel about this chapter, I'm curious what you think. If you're going 'wtf' by the end of it, the last chapter should clear some things up for you. Enjoy. 
> 
> Warnings for violence towards a pregnant person, mentions of cruelty. Hostage situations.

 

IV

 

Early on Will had learned that if you told people too much of the truth they wouldn't believe you. It wasn't that they instantly assumed someone was a liar but that reality wavered in other people's vision in a much more fluid way than for Will. He had always had a fantastic memory, so perfect he could recall with absolute clarity the lines in a novel, the words people said and the words they said they'd kept and never had. Will had eventually lost his ability to recall so directly what everyone had spoken about in exact detail; it had been a blessing when he had lifted his face from his books in college and had realized he couldn't remember what the professor had said two hours ago. He'd encouraged the degradation to cope with his eidetic memory because after all, books didn't call people names when they were told something they didn't like or abandon them out of frustration. However, no matter how much he suppressed or willed it away, memories good or bad never left him. They were in there, waiting.

 

“Does it offend your sense of decency,” Budge asked, “or is it the lies you've been telling yourself somehow through your own psychosis that is most disturbing?”

 

After what he had been told, Will hardened. This wasn't the time to panic, especially since everything had as much chance to be a lie as the truth considering the source.

 

“I haven't killed anybody,” Will said, he wasn't sure of much but he was sure of that.

 

“I never said you killed them,” Budge said, “only that you participated in hiding the evidence.”

 

“Why,” Will said, “everything you've said up to this point is like dust on glass. Easily blown away by the facts. Give me hard evidence.”

 

“But what facts do you have,” Budge said, “considering the circumstances? Not many. You're very ill, anyone who took a look at you could see that. Did you know that Dr. Lecter wrote in his little black book about your illness?”

 

Will was troubled in the knowing more than the diagnosis.

 

“I had an infection,” Will said.

 

Budge smiled and said, “Not just an infection. A very special kind that is unusually represented in omegas, particularly over 30 and without children.”

 

“Explain,” Will said.

 

The more time he bought, the better the chance he had to get out. This is what he told himself as the fear returned, scratching at his brain. The memories slid together, conversations previously half remembered bloomed in lucidity.

 

_Did you just smell me?_

 

The bastard had known from the start.

 

“Dr. Lecter hid it from you,” Budge said.

 

“Tell me what else he's hiding,” Will said.

 

Budge said, “I'm no medical man I never got very far down that career track though I did try once or twice. So please bear with me because my understanding is limited.”

 

Will very much doubted Tobias Budge had a limited understanding of anything he put his mind to.

 

“The disease has been percolating in you for quite some time and it was only a recent fever that ever alluded to its presence. That's what makes the disease so difficult to find; no outward symptoms, not even a flicker until things have already crossed the danger line. The scent membrane leads into the brain and when one becomes inflamed and infected, attacked by its own anti-bodies, eventually the brain becomes inflamed as well. Your head is on fire agent Graham, your perceptions holding on by mere threads, everything you know may not be the whole story because you've been walking around in a daze doing things without knowing why. Does any of this sound familiar?”

 

Will clenched his teeth. It did sound familiar but it didn't mean anything. There was no reason at all for Hannibal to hide an illness from him; the evidence flowed as sand through his fingers. None of it stuck, it didn't go together. He might as well be trying to make glass by pounding it.

 

“Even if it does,” Will said, “It doesn't stand to reason Dr. Lecter would hide this from me.”

 

“Why not,” Budge said, “what are you to him?”

 

“I'm pregnant with his kid,” Will snapped, “he's compassionate, has a long history of valuing courtesy, he doesn't have a motive!”

 

His voice escalated, it wasn't as if volume mattered to Budge. That was probably a very strong reason why he had come all the way out to Will's house. It was isolated. Quiet, verdant countryside surrounded by woods. Will could scream and scream and no one would come. He wanted to scream at Budge in particular for putting the jangling piece of a puzzle into his head without all the other pieces to finish it.

 

_There's no motive..._

 

_He would find it rude._

 

_No one will know what he is._

 

The copycat loomed in his head, poor Cassi pierced on antlers in a field. Nick Boyle missing and unaccounted for, the call to Jack's house and the arm of Miriam Lass and it spiralled until his head was filled with a death list that went long, longer until names became numbers endlessly marching on.

 

“No,” Will whispered, “it can't be.”

 

All of the names and numbers syphoned down into one possibility. The display on the street in front of Hannibal Lecter's office, the death of his patient, it hadn't been circumstance.

 

“If he is who you think he is,” Will said, “then he won't come.”

 

Tobias Budge had graced him with a bemused chuckle.

 

“He'll come,” he said, “don't doubt your own importance.”

 

“If he's the Ripper,” Will said sullenly, giving voice to his deepest fears, “nothing you can do would ever bring him to expose himself. Unless he was going to kill the both of us.”

 

“A distinct possibility,” Tobias said, “unless I kill him first.”

 

The memories and images were overlaid. Will carefully sorted what he recalled and what he had read and seen and viewed in person and through photos in Jack's office. It didn't match up. Hannibal Lecter couldn't be the Ripper, it was impossible. He was a humanitarian, kind and gentle and had been so good to Abigail and so decent to Will. None of that would have served a purpose to such a cruel monster.

 

_But the Ripper would be invisible, no one would know what he was._

 

Will pressed his palms to his eyes, his head hurt. He saw images, began to piece together histories.

 

Hannibal was an orphan, he was raised by his uncle. Isolated, alone, solitary in everything and quite apart from everyone _for god's sake he's a first generation immigrant of course he's different than ordinary, American society..._

 

An endless spiral of confusion. He had no proof either way. If what Tobias had told him was a lie to put him on edge, it was very much working. If it was the truth, Will found it impossible to dwell on what he would do. The grim spectre of an institution loomed up in his head. If he made it out alive. This was madness, personified. Would Miriam Lass' sad corpse be just out of reach in one of Hannibal's stainless steel fridges? Would he succumb mid gestation to a killer's mad design, rendering the life inside of him eternally unfinished (the image appeared in his head unbidden; insects trapped in amber in the midst of procreation, fucking, eating - all of their tiny insignificant actions solidified, frozen at the moment of their deaths because nature didn't care about one insignificant tiny life).

 

Will made a decision as he felt the nail file dig into his hip. He would not end up like the frozen bugs under amber glass or sad Miriam dying afraid and alone, confused by what was happening to her until the last unthinkable moments. As the pendulum swung in his mind, instead of recreating the past he reconstructed his future. Movements, patterns, footsteps and eventual survival.

 

“I have to let the dogs outside,” Will said, “unless you want an accident.”

 

Budge observed him, calculating.

 

“All right,” he said.

 

Will went slowly from room to room, his movements still sluggish from sickness and the drugs he had been given earlier. His animals got up from their cozy corners and their warm beds and trailed after him, the routine familiar. Budge ghosted him, as he had any other time he had gone wandering through his small but efficient house. Something felt off, Will was counting down as much as Budge was numbering the minutes himself. They were both potently aware events were coming to a head and it confused Will for a moment because why would Budge predict such a thing when Will had just made the decision, why had he done any of this, where was the purpose as it was alarmingly missing, an endless stream of questions without answers.

 

His dogs were at the door and Budge stood near him waiting for him to let them out. Will unlatched it, swung the door wide so the dogs would begin barrelling outside. Then he quickly removed the nail file from his pocket and struck. The metal whizzed through the air and Will felt the nauseating splatter of red across his nose. He hadn't done major damage, he could see the red leave Budge's hand as he had moved to defend himself. The dogs yowled outside and Will quickly used his body to tear apart the screen door. It hung drunkenly on its hinges as he staggered quickly outside. The dogs almost tripped him up but he power ran until his heart was thudding in his chest and the dizziness and nausea threatened to overtake him.

 

He looked back at his house, the fog sitting heavy on the cold air. It was safety no longer, a prison of terror. Budge's silhouette loomed against the house still brightly lit from inside. He made no move to chase after Will, only stood with his hands near his pockets, calm, waiting, his hand probably still bleeding. Too frightened to stop, Will couldn't help but acknowledge the strangeness. It was as though Budge were waiting for something, an event that had already been long planned.

 

The yowling had abruptly stopped by the time Will had made it to the barn. He flung open the doors and went to let the dogs in when he noticed their presence missing. He spun around, his dogs were his life if he had lost them somehow....

 

But there weren't even paw prints in the snow. A glance at his house told him things were different, the house was dark. He heard nothing. He was alone in the cold, dark expanse of his yard.

 

“What's happening to me,” he whispered.

 

He fled inside the barn. It wasn't very warm and Will was still wearing his flannel shirt and a pair of rough jeans he liked to wear at home with his mud stained shoes. Not exactly winter weather clothing. He crawled up into the hayloft and surrounded himself with straw, shaking from the cold. He would warm up in a few moments and then at least be able to get the gun from the cast. When he had the cold metal in his hands locked and loaded, he was relieved.

 

Sounds came from outside. The crunching of footsteps on the frozen ground. He listened, carefully as they plodded towards his hiding place. Will would take no chances, it could be Budge. It could be help, it could be anyone really. Through the scope he could see the thin ray of light around the barn door that led to the outside. Will held his breath as he saw movement blocking the light.

 

He aimed and waited.

 

The shaft of light from the outdoors fell on the figure. A flashlight nearly blinded him when it made its way to the loft above.

 

“Jesus Christ,” an exclamation warranted considering Will had a Wesson trained on his skull, “point that thing away from me!”

 

Will complied begrudgingly.

 

“What are you doing up there?” Zeller's voice boomed in the small barn, it gave Will an instant headache.

 

“Budge is in my house,” Will said, “he was going to kill me.”

 

There was a pointed silence from below.

 

Zeller looked up at him warily, “I was just in your house. There wasn't anyone there. Looks like hell though Graham, can't say you're a great housekeeper. Did you know you've been missing for three days?”

 

“Three days?” Will said, he'd been in the barn for maybe two hours.

 

He took stock of himself, not particularly starving or thirsty. If three days had gone by, it had happened half in the comfort of his own home and half under Budge's watchful gaze. The missing time was still dubious. It had to be a miscalculation. A cold sweat broke out over his skin. Had he really been that far gone?

 

“Jack,” Zeller said, “Dr. Lecter, Alana Bloom and everybody's been looking for you.”

 

“Tobias Budge was in my house,” Will insisted, “he tried to kill me and he was going to murder my dogs.”

 

“Will,” Zeller said, “I'm coming up there so put the gun down.”

 

Will put the gun to the side, in easy reach if he needed it. The moment he dropped it, his arms sagged and his body felt heavy. He was exhausted from lack of sleep. He slumped against the loft wall, his breathing erratic. He heard the creek of the steps as Zeller made his way up the rickety ladder even as his eyes closed of their own accord.

 

“Will,” the gentle admonition made him snap awake.

 

Zeller was checking his pulse against his wrist. Will snapped his arm back.

 

“He was there,” Will said, “where are my dogs?”

 

“In the house,” Zeller said, “well they were, Dr. Bloom took them back to her place for a while. Everyone was really worried about you, glad you're ok.”

 

“I'm not ok,” Will mumbled.

 

“Yeah,” Zeller said, “I can see that. You hurt anywhere?”

 

Will said, “no worse than usual.”

 

He slumped against the cold wood, the smell of hay bothered his nose. It mixed sourly with Zeller's alpha scent.

 

“Did you pass out?” Zeller asked, “Do you even know what day it is?”

 

“No,” Will said, “I can guess.”

 

“Jesus,” Zeller uttered under his breath, “are you passing out? Do you see any lights behind your eyes?”

 

“Stop it,” Will snapped.

 

Apparently arguing with an armed omega seemed like a bad idea, Zeller ceased his barrage of questions.

 

“Come back to the house with me,” Zeller said, he was not an expert in negotiation, “they found a body on your property. You know, until we examined it everyone thought it was you but now they aren't so sure.”

 

He jolted. So, one thing that Budge had told him had been the truth.

 

“What?” Will said, stiffly.

 

“Will,” Zeller said firmly, “Jack and everybody else would really like to know why Nick Boyle was buried in your backyard.”

 

His sinuses ached with intensity, Zeller smelled sour but he also smelled like something else. Will's paranoia grew. Someone was doing something to him, messing with his head. But why? He was fairly certain he hadn't killed Nick Boyle but he may have buried him in a fugue state for someone else.

 

“Someone's with you,” Will said, “who?”

 

Zeller sighed, “Dr. Lecter called me up. He was worried Jack wasn't doing enough. You know, we'd probably have found you sooner if any of us knew you had a barn. It's impossible to see from the house, the four trees clustered together mid-lawn block it out perfectly.”

 

“It was here when I bought it,” Will said.

 

Zeller had been chosen. He was an alpha who viewed Will like an errant child, all omegas really. An insecurity born from his inability to accept someone lesser as a superior. He wouldn't listen, he would only dismiss. That was his strength in the strange game Will was putting together.

 

“Let's go back,” Zeller persisted.

 

It was an elaborate game that Will had no rules for, he hadn't recognized the pieces until now and Zeller was as blind as Will had been over 48 hours prior. Something was waiting for Will at his house and it wasn't only the presence of his unconventional psychiatrist.

 

“All right,” Will said.

 

He looked at the gun longingly as they went by, he would miss it. But Zeller was packing and Will would do what he had to, even if it made him tremble with fear, fever sick, to think about.

 

Zeller had offered Will his jacket multiple times but Will had pushed it off. His temperature was running so hot it was alarming and the cold air was a blessing even if it did bring the threat of frost bite with it. When they arrived at the front door Will took careful note of everything. No breaking and entering, nothing out of place, only two sets of footprints belonging to Zeller's winter boots and Hannibal's more precise footwear unsuitable for outdoor venturing. His screen door was propped up outside the door. He walked carefully into the entryway, noted that the chair he had knocked over had been righted, a few things put back in their place. This had likely been Hannibal's doing as a way to disarm his story. It was becoming apparent that the good doctor may be anything but.

 

“I sent him a text,” Zeller said, “he's on his way back.”

 

_From where, I wonder._ Will thought, _dropping off his new found friend?_

 

Zeller dropped a blanket over his shoulders, it was one Will had bought in college. Vague wistful memories assaulted him, his ex-girlfriend had bought it for him when he was in therapy after their break-up. The months spent in the institution almost seemed quaint when compared with relentless terror. He wrapped it around himself and sank into his couch. Being awake was painful but he tried to stay alert, he wasn't sure when the penny would drop. He wouldn't be caught by surprise.

 

Will's eyes snapped open.

 

“If Budge is still here,” Will said, “he'd likely be in the bedroom. Humour me? I don't think I can sleep without...”

 

He trailed off. Let Zeller think he's a scared omega who needs a big bad alpha to make him feel strong again, it would feed into his ego.

 

“Sure,” Zeller said.

 

They walked slowly to the back of the house. Will saw the scratches on the walls, dings from furniture being moved. He noticed in the kitchen there was a dent that he didn't remember making, it may have happened when he had struggled with Budge. He clung to it like a sigil.

 

“There's no one here,” Zeller said, humouring him, “but it's probably pretty freaky being way out here by yourself when you're not feeling well.”

 

He remembered pieces and bits of the incident in his car. There was a question whether or not he had actually sexually assaulted Zeller or had only dreamed it. Zeller showed no signs that he had endured a rape but that didn't mean much as he wondered if someone with that much of a superiority complex would even consider an assault by an omega worthwhile acknowledging. None the less, Will felt an incredible amount of guilt over what he may have done and what he was about to do.

 

“Probably,” Will said, flatly, waiting for Zeller to turn away from him.

 

There were no erstwhile vases on plinths for Will to hurl so he went for the next best thing. The heavy tackle box by his bed. He slammed it with what he hoped was enough force to render Zeller unconscious and not terribly injured. Zeller fell to the side with a grunt and Will, with great effort, placed him on his side on his bed.

 

Will slipped the gun out of his holster and hid it under in the back of his pants. With one alpha down, he only had one to go.

 

He crept slowly down the hall, more from illness than any sense of secrecy. The door had opened and closed, he could hear sounds in the entryway.

 

“Will,” Hannibal said, before he had rounded the last corner to his kitchen, “Where is Agent Zeller?”

 

Will sighed, grabbed the glock and cocked it.

 

“Let's talk,” he said, coldly.

 

Hannibal quirked his head to the side. Will couldn't recall having ever seen Hannibal outright annoyed but this was close. Will felt some satisfaction having spoiled his perfectly made plan.

 

“Very well,” he said.

 

Will kept his aim steady through an astounding amount of self control while he manoeuvred onto the couch. He was sick and slumping but his arm was steady and he aimed to kill, not wound. Hannibal sat across from him in his large paisley chair. It was a mockery of their sessions but now the roles were reversed; Will had all the power.

 

“How are you feeling?” Hannibal asked, his face filled with genuine concern.

 

“Not very well,” Will said, “I'm probably a lot sicker than I thought.”

 

“I believe so,” Hannibal said, “would you like me to call an ambulance?”

 

“No,” Will hissed through gritted teeth, “why is Nick Boyle in my backyard?”

 

“I would like to know the answer to that question myself,” Hannibal said.

 

“I didn't kill him,” Will said.

 

“You certainly did not,” Hannibal agreed.

 

It was said with such assurance it threw Will for a moment. Hannibal had already known who had killed him.

 

“Why,” Will asked, “wasn't it me? I'm burning to hear the answer to this question.”

 

“Because it was someone close to you,” Hannibal said, sadly, “someone we both admire. I believe you were trying to help her despite your illness.”

 

“Wh-what?” Will said, his body shuddered.

 

Muscle memories came unbidden, strange filmy images. Abigail, cold and dirty despite her winter jacket on his porch.

 

_I guess we all have secrets now._

 

“No,” Will whispered, “it can't be.”

 

“It was an accident,” Hannibal said, “I was there to witness it, I helped her hide the body because I didn't want to see her suffer for her father's crimes. She must have dug him up and then panicked. It can be difficult for an omega to smell that kind of rot. She came to you for help. You would have taken your car out to wherever his body was and helped her bury him on your land. The last part is only conjecture on my behalf but it's the most sensible explanation.”

 

“Nothing is sensible right now,” Will insisted, “Abigail isn't a killer. She's not a killer!”

 

“She is a killer,” Hannibal said, “the same way you were when you killed Garret Jacob Hobbs. Would it feel good to kill me now, Will?”

 

No, he'd hate it. It would cause him enormous pain. But he would, if he had to.

 

His voice trembled, “Are you a killer, Doctor?”

 

It suddenly made sense all of this darkness swirling around the both of them, the vortex conjured from one central element. Will still couldn't say it, not out loud. Barely in his head even as it wailed and rattled through every cell in his body, waiting like a scream perched under his chin.

 

“She loves you desperately,” Hannibal said, “you're all she has. She trusts you more than me, you're the only connection to her mother she has left.”

 

“I am not like Hobbs,” Will spat.

 

“You were both unconventional omegas,” Hannibal reminded him, “that's all the criteria she needed to make a connection.”

 

It rang with the truth, she was as lost as he ever had been as a teenager. Looking for friends, elusive similarities between himself and the adults that populated his world. Abigail was a victim who had been used by Hobbs as a template to fulfil his designs. Will had been unlucky enough to love her as a surrogate child that fulfilled his.

 

“She's insecure because of your pregnancy,” Hannibal said, “though I counselled her that we would still be her guardians regardless of what had happened between us.”

 

As they had sat at the dinner table together eating the fish that Will had caught he remembered her disappointment that Alana hadn't been with them. But also, he recalled her glances in his direction, as though she had wanted him alone the entire night. It must have been that night that she had confessed to him her secrets but Will had no memory of it. Perhaps he had been so disturbed he had blocked it out and the fever did the rest, blurring the lines between his consent and his autonomic nervous system. His subconscious on auto-pilot, ignoring his morality and acting on his darkest wishes. Murder really had brought their family together.

 

“Why are you doing this to me,” it tumbled out of his mouth before he could stop himself, the litany of every jaded lover, “what was the point, you knocked me up, you watched me do this to myself - for what? Your own sick pleasure?”

 

“I'm trying to help you,” Hannibal said, “I still am.”

 

Will convulsed with anger, Hannibal twitched slightly and kept his eye on the gun. Will managed to collect himself before going on.

 

“Somehow,” Will said, “I don't think that's a lie.”

 

Horrifying really, that someone's morality could be so fractured and evil that even good intentions turned into monstrous acts. It terrified Will to the point he was shaking, ever so slightly. It was beyond the sickness he was experiencing and far passed the dark places he wandered inside the killer's heads he occupied on a regular basis. A strange, primal otherness. The Ripper saw nothing wrong with what he did. The mask was peeling back and Will hated every second of it.

 

“I'm concerned about you,” Hannibal said, “I think you don't know what reality is anymore.”

 

It was an act to disarm him. Now that Will was viewing every action with suspicion, it became easier to see.

 

“Because you pushed me to it,” Will snarled, “how many times did I blank out and do things I didn't know about? How much of this was you? How much of any of it was me?”

 

“Your actions were your own just as we discussed,” Hannibal replied smoothly, “I always wanted to help you Will, put the gun down.”

 

Will could easily see himself helping Abigail no matter her crimes. He had been so invested in her, in a way that was unhealthy. She was his surrogate daughter, though surrogate was probably to weak of a word. The moment he had murdered her biological parent was the moment Will had taken possession. He would have done anything to keep her away from anyone else because he was without companionship. That included burying her guilt under his own.

 

Hannibal said, “Most omegas fear their isolation, yours became understandable to you. You were alone because you were unique.”

 

“As alone as you are,” Will said.

 

“We don't have to be alone,” Hannibal said, “anymore. The three of us, with one more when the time comes.”

 

He was so genuine it was difficult to doubt. Possibly the most difficult thing he had ever done because he didn't want his doubt to be true.

 

Will said, “You know me but I don't-”

 

He stumbled. He had known nothing. Only snatches, echoes. Distant images that were hiding the real thing.

 

“I don't know you,” Will said, his shaking ceased as he levelled his gun at Hannibal Lecter.

 

Hannibal was unconcerned, “you know me better than anybody. And I would like to think, you allowed me to know you because we were colleagues, friends perhaps something more.”

 

Will wanted it to be true, he wanted everything to be a lie more than anything he wanted the evidence to evaporate and disappear. But it wouldn't, he knew it wouldn't.

 

“I can't trust you,” Will said.

 

“You can't even trust yourself,” Hannibal said, his calmness infuriating, “what else can you do?”

 

“Tobias Budge,” Will said, “you left me with him, you left me with a killer. You left _our baby_ with a murderer.”

 

It was a trick, it was all a disgusting lie to throw him into the deep end.

 

Hannibal regarded him with sympathy, “Agent Zeller checked the rooms. There was no one here, Will. You were alone the entire time. If there's evidence, the bureau will want to do a DNA sweep, surely they'll find something.”

 

There would be nothing because Hannibal had been careful, because he was the Ripper because he was a psychopath. He knew, he knew, _he had to know._..

 

“ _Don't lie to me!_ ” the scream had appeared, Will felt himself crest and crack, “what's happening to me?”

 

His arm jolted, it dropped down no matter how wilful he was about keeping it up. He was accosted by smells, scents, confusion, he could literally feel himself slip under. When he could focus his eyes again the gun was on the coffee table and Hannibal was calling his name. His body hurt, muscles trembled and spasmed.

 

“Will,” a voice whispered to him like a dream.

 

Hannibal was relieved when Will's eyes focused on his face. His concern was so evident it nearly broke Will's heart all over again. A sob broke from his throat, there may have been a few errant tears.

 

_I don't want this to be real. Please don't be real._

 

“Will,” Hannibal said again, “can you hear me?”

 

His eyes could barely keep Hannibal's face in focus but he nodded.

 

A sigh of relief.

 

“Can you raise your arms,” he directed, “Higher.”

 

Will complied despite his body aching from the effort.

 

“I know you may not feel like it,” Hannibal said, “But I want you to smile.”

 

Whatever sick, ungainly thing Will had presented him with was enough for Hannibal to return the favour. He was extremely attractive, elusive, it was easy to see why others found the Ripper so hard to understand.

 

“You're very lucky. I called the ambulance already, they're on their way,” Hannibal said, “you had a mild seizure.”

 

Will groaned, “don't leave me.”

 

Everyone had left him in one way or another, that's why it was so hard to let go. It was so hard to keep himself away from Abigail, from his dogs, from the man who was a monster. Once he became attached to something, he didn't want it to leave. All the bad relationships burned behind his brain, in flames like a funeral pyre. He could recall them so clearly even as their own memories faded away. His exes had been afraid of him, the way he had seen them so clearly.

 

“ _Whatever is in you, making you like this,” the firm female voice that had given him a blanket, that had sent him into an institution after the collapse of their relationship, “get help for it.”_

 

“ _Stop testing me!” she had loved him, really loved him but he could tell she didn't just want him “it's called a self fulfilling prophecy, Will!”_

 

“ _Don't leave me,” Abigail's voice, so frail, “You promised. You promised you'd do whatever it took and now I'm asking for it.”_

 

The worst part was the leaving because he had become a shadow as they became brighter. His feelings disappearing until he couldn't tell one from the other, theirs from his own. Until all they could see in return was the echo in their own ugliness. Hannibal wouldn't be afraid of that ugliness.

 

“Will,” Hannibal said, “I'll ride with you to the hospital, I promise.”

 

Will reached out for Hannibal's pristine jacket, he grabbed his arm and weakly pulled at him. Hannibal held Will's arms in return and gave it a comforting squeeze.

 

“It's going to be fine,” Hannibal said, “our baby is fine.”

 

“But I,” Will stumbled, he didn't know what he saw, something. Flickers.

 

Eye contact meant seeing too much. Sadness maybe, something lost in Hannibal's eyes. Unrequited love.

 

“I love you,” Will mumbled, quiet at first, “ _love you, love you, love you._..”

 

A horrible malformed monster, the echo in his mirrors, a shade he couldn't escape. Hannibal was moved, his expression softened. He loved him back! Fiery kisses were rained on his face, it felt so good. Not since their first heat together had Will felt it so strongly, affection and love. They broke apart and Will could see, could see the real him. His perfect predator. And he could smell the scent of the alpha who had filled him up so joyously that first time.

 

And he could smell a second scent, fainter. Something that he had smelled before when he had visited Hannibal that first return after his heat, the strange alpha smell in the dining room. It brought Will back to himself with such ferocity he couldn't help his expression changing, the grip around Hannibal tightening. And he saw reflected in Hannibal's gaze a monstrous, consuming, terrifying love. Where there had been kindness, there was cruelty. Possession. Compulsions that would deliver him into a hole so deep it was impossible to dig his way out. His dreams had been a warning from his inner self; bury your guilt or bury yourself alive.

 

The change was so fast it was nearly inhuman, from flesh and blood to a ghastly creature. It was his nightmare, the demon in his dreams. A picture book pulled from the wall of his house when he was a child: _WENDIGO_ the flesh eater, crowned with rotting skin and stag's horns. Will was brutally hauled from the couch, his neck pressed in and flung to the ground. He struggled ferociously as Hannibal removed a long, slim tool form his pocket. It glinted against the ceiling light above Will's head blinding him. Hannibal's expression hardly changed. The tool slowly went up Will's left nostril. He could feel the cartilage crunch as Hannibal stabbed the instrument home, once. Twice. All the way on the third and pulled out on the fourth.

 

Finally, the real scream tore itself free.

 

Will crawled along the floor as his face dripped blood, his hands curled into claws. He grabbed the instrument from the floor and swept it wildly in the air, he felt flesh give way but heard nothing. Doors were broken down, unfamiliar sounds and scents exploded in his head. Will could only float on the pain as it consumed him. His vision blurred out but he did see the red streak across Hannibal's cheek, livid against his creamy skin and drops of it spattered on his suit. He saw Hannibal's face morph from a monster into the mask of a concerned alpha, an unbearable transformation.

 

“No!” Will screamed, this was it, this was his chance, “ he's a killer!”

 

_They had to see!_

 

The EMT's rushed him and quickly pinned his arms by his side. He screamed, every second the agony in his face grew worse until he was weak as a kitten, could only moan in pain. He had almost had him, he almost had the Ripper.

 

_Why can't you..._

 

“See,” he gasped, as the blood from his nose ran into his mouth.

 

“You're going to be ok,” empty platitudes spoken by dumb animals, they didn't know, were incapable of knowing, “we've got you now.”

 

They would never know that they didn't have the real beast under control.

 

“ _His injury was self inflicted”_ was all Will heard before passing out.  


	5. Dethroned

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally it appears. Only six episodes into the new season, and what a season! Please enjoy the final installment to Marked. There are a few little pieces that go with this universe that will be up over the next few weeks. Are any of you interested in a sequel? I wouldn't be attempting it until after the second season airs. Let me know if you are, in the comments. 
> 
> I hope the ending is as satisfying to read as it was for me to write.

V

 

The coldest spring on record had evolved into a wet, dismal summer where sodden trees fought to keep themselves upright under the onslaught of pelting rain. Floods were often announced on the radio, though no major damage had occurred yet, roads were occasionally too treacherous to drive on and shops in some of the low laying areas of Baltimore closed early. Tattle Crime had enjoyed an upswing in sales as a scandal within the FBI had made its way into the general population, the more tasteful papers only printed the barest of details. _FBI special agent has mental breakdown, Bureau implicated._ Tattle Crime however, had run a nice full page spread with a charming picture, the kind only taken if an intrepid reporter had broken into the hospital ICU using less than legal means. _Pregnant special agent turns on himself after turning on public_ And the charming byline; _Bureau incompetence still at large._

 

“She was fined,” Alana said, “at least we caught her at it.”

 

Will sat in a hospice chair that was alarming comfortable compared to the usual plastic monstrosities most hospitals enjoyed inflicting on visitors and patients alike. It was one of the perks of being admitted to a private institution and Will was well aware at all times who exactly was footing the bill, since his own assets had been seized. It was nothing like the publicly funded place Will had checked himself into in his twenties but it still had enough similarities that it made him deeply uncomfortable to be there.

 

“Small mercies,” Will said, his eyes hurt from all the white so he looked out the window and relieved himself with endless grey, in the form of a parking lot with a sad grass rotunda.

 

There had been a tree in the middle when he came here but it had died halfway through his treatment and they had chopped it down. He was nauseated to recall that he had been in this place long enough to notice changes in its character.

 

“We couldn't stop them from running it,” Alana said, “it turns out when you have enough dirt on the entire legal system in Baltimore it's hard to get a lawyer willing to stand up to you. And Hannibal's lawyers were occupied at the time.”

 

“His lawyers are spectacular,” Will said, deadpan.

 

He felt sick to his bones and it wasn't only because the plethora of medication he was taking had enough side-effects to fit in a novel sized book. It didn't matter that he was in a very nice, extremely clean and compassionate institution. The good intentions didn't soften the blow that he had woken up a head case with little memory of what had happened to him or why he was even there. Even if the worst two months of his life were behind him in his recovery, there were still alarming gaps in his head.

 

“What was the verdict,” he asked.

 

“Not guilty,” Alana said, “by reason of insanity.”

 

Will closed his eyes briefly. It had been kinder than what he had expected, than probably what he had deserved.

 

“And the sentence?” he asked.

 

“Guardianship,” she said, “professional therapy, treatment. On compassionate grounds.”

 

She had heavy emphasis on the word professional, she still hadn't quite forgiven Hannibal for taking liberties.

 

“I was expecting long term institution,” Will said.

 

“You said it yourself, Hannibal's lawyers are spectacular. We also had a judge who was sympathetic to omegas abused by the system,” Alana said gently.

 

“I wasn't abused,” Will said.

 

“Jack pushed you,” Alana said firmly, “we all pushed you.”

 

“Whatever I did,” Will said, “it's not their fault. It's mine.”

 

“You don't remember what you did Will,” Alana said, “because you were sick. You almost died in the hospital due to your injuries and the brain infection that was killing you day by day that nobody even noticed.”

 

“I don't want Jack to get roasted,” Will said, “he tried.”

 

“Not hard enough,” the bitterness in Alana's voice was telling, “not before this happened.”

 

“He didn't push me to it,” Will said.

 

“He threatened Abigail, bullied her. Bullied you, saw something was happening. And by that point you had killed Nick Boyle without even knowing it,” Alana said, her voice shook, “possibly your GP too, but they haven't found her body yet....”

 

The unspoken, “ _maybe others_ ”.

 

Not enough evidence to convict him for killing Cassie Boyle and Marissa Schurr but not for lack of trying.

 

The wind howled outside as the leaves splattered wetly against the windows. He had initially assumed the prosecution would wait since he wasn't deemed fit to stand trial. There had probably been a lot of hospital pictures passed around, his instability stressed, the inability to describe the situations that had led up to the crime. The picture Freddie Lounds took bloomed ugly and lurid in his head like an ugly flower. He recalled the glazed expression on his face from heavy sedatives, the cotton restraints and the thick bandages across the mid part of his face that had been available online to see by the hundreds of thousands. It was hot news when an FBI agent lost their mind, spin it as an omega murder/suicide and it's on fire. The injuries to his pride and his person weren't the most worrisome thing about his recovery. Huge chunks of time were missing from his memories and it jarred him sometimes what he remembered and what he didn't. For instance, he had remembered meeting Abigail at the hospital but he hadn't remembered the death of her parents. The choices seemed random; there was no bias in his brain between the kind and the cruel and he had none of the ease supposedly experienced in an amnesiac. He was shaking a bucket full of mirror shards looking for impossible patterns.

 

“No evidence until they do,” Will said, quietly, “if I was operating like Hobbs, they probably won't.”

 

“You'd really take it wouldn't you,” Alana said, “If they told you that being locked up for life was the only option you'd almost enjoy it. Like Saint Sebastian, suffering rapturously with every arrow they throw at you. For what, Will? The less fighting you do, the closer you get to nirvana?”

 

Alana took in a shuddering breath. He could hear her wiping away tears. She had nearly shouted the last part.

 

“When were you even going to tell me you were having his baby,” she said, then blinked away her tears, “sorry. That's none of my business.”

 

“Let it out,” Will said, “trust me, it feels good. It's like scream therapy.”

 

He felt like Saint Sebastian, broken and bleeding to the bone.

 

“If I started screaming right now,” Alana said, “I probably wouldn't stop.”

 

Will drew in his own shuddering breath. He knew how that felt.

 

“I meant to tell you about it,” Will said, “I would have but I wasn't thinking straight.”

 

“I forgive you,” Alana said, “both of you.”

 

He wondered what the conversation between Alana and Hannibal had been like after the danger had been over. Not very pleasant, he guessed. They hadn't visited him together even once. Alana was still protective of him, a little more than a friend should be.

 

“How's Abigail,” he asked.

 

“Despondent at first,” she said, “after your sentence was lighter than expected, she was relieved. She wants to see you.”

 

Of course she would.

 

“Can I see her?” he asked, knowing the answer already.

 

“No,” Alana said, “I'm sorry. Not now and not ever, ideally.”

 

The unspoken suspicion; we don't know how much of Hobbs is still in you.

 

“For the best,” Will said, nearly a whisper.

 

And that was it, he had heard his own fate. Abigail's fate. There weren't many more steps left to take.

 

“Hannibal is going to take you home in another month so you can have your baby in peace,” Alana said, “to a place outside Baltimore. It's quiet there by a woods and a lake. The courts are approving an alternative care giver and a psychiatrist. I've been permitted to sign off on both when the time comes.”

 

She was trying to help him. Out of guilt and obligation and maybe, if Will were being honest about what he saw in her, affection. He had the most terrible longing to reach across the table and cling to her as though she could save him from the hellish confusion he had existed in for the last three months. Of course he remained rooted to the spot, his hands twitching against his thighs and watched her reflection grow concerned in the window.

 

“Is it too much to expect visitors?” Will said.

 

“I'll visit,” she said warmly, “I'll bring your dogs. They're great animals by the way, I can't imagine how long it would've taken to train them that well.”

 

“Months for some,” Will said, “others were just strays that needed love.”

 

He faced Alana and watched her expression change and saw the fight she made with herself not to zero in on the scar across the bridge of his nose that was still ugly, red and bright against his pale skin. He'd seen it many times in the mirror and knows it's not getting smaller anytime soon, especially not with two more surgeries in his future as they try to patch together the pieces he has left of his scent gland under the assumption it's better to have some independence away from his alpha instead of none. Her eyes instead fall lower to his swollen abdomen, the child inside somehow still alive and protected despite his amniotic fluid's best attempts at turning toxic.

 

“I'll look after them” Alana said, as she steeled herself against Will's scars, “Until...whenever.”

 

“That might be a long time,” he confessed.

 

The matter of his recovery was dicier than the sentencing at the trial. He remembered with crystal clarity the day he had lifted his hand from his hospital bed a few inches while it shook like a leaf in a storm. It had been the first time during the whole ordeal he had thought there was some chance he would recover. When he had sat up again, the moment had been soured by Jack delivering him his legal rights an hour later. He could now walk without assistance, relatively take care of himself in the few ways they allowed on a locked, supervised, videotaped ward. But the months in hospital had really taken their toll on him physiologically, he felt like a wire skeleton suspended by a thread with a bowling ball in its middle. And his mental state, fragile was an understatement. He felt like he had been hit by an atom bomb.

 

“Is there anything you need before I go?” Alana asked.

 

Impossible to answer. What did he need? A damn haircut without the interference of the alpha head nurse who thought it was unseemly for omegas to have the short beta style he preferred. To shave his face without a supervisor, something he wasn't allowed to do because of their 'concerns' about razors (not that he did that often with his pregnancy hormones running so high). His own clothes and not starched whites. To get out of the mental institution and go home. But not the new home that was presented to him, the old one with the dogs and teaching and awful sickening cases that held the promise of maybe, possibly making a difference. He wanted his baby already, that too because it was something to hold onto in a world that had fallen apart around him.

 

Will shook his head and said nothing more as he turned himself to the storm outside.

 

His second visit that week was much less restful. A formal request had been made by the FBI to further question Will and it had been granted under the condition he was interrogated in a non-intrusive environment. A 'family room' was set up for the questioning, the kind Will usually associated with hospitals and terminal news. He wasn't surprised when Jack had been let into the room.

 

“Did you really kill Nick Boyle?” Jack asked.

 

A kind greeting but who could blame him. Jack looked stressed, like he had been fighting something tooth and nail for months.

 

“That's what they tell me,” Will said.

 

“You don't remember,” he insisted, “anything at all about his murder?”

 

“No,” Will insisted, “Or about the GP or any other possible victims but apparently there's enough evidence to suggest it.”

 

“Your lures,” Jack said, “held what little evidence there was.”

 

Will nodded. He remembered that part but for the life of him he couldn't recall ever making them. Human flesh and bone, from Boyle and Dr. Magnolia wrapped up in twine and feathers and human remains from Cassie Boyle and Marissa Schurr. They had tested him with medical supervision when he had still been shaky from illness and confusion to see if he could have done it while in a fugue state. Of course he had managed to make them. He could make lures in his sleep, he'd made thousands over the years. It was suggested that his lures had been a sad mimicry of Hobbs, honouring the parts of his victims he had at hand. But the defence had argued the remains of the copycat victims were incidental and could have been acquired through his job, he was after all a very sick, confused man. It was enough to have them dropped from his charges. His dogs had mercifully been left out of the equation, he had feared there would be a court order to have them put down to examine their stomachs for human remains. Apparently since there was no evidence of Hobbs characteristic consumption, they had let it slide.

 

Jack let out a heavy sigh, he hadn't gotten what he wanted.

 

“What do you think,” Will said, “that I did.”

 

It wouldn't be surprising if the nurses came in any moment now and dispersed their get together under the conviction that Jack was upsetting their patient. They were overly touchy with questioning, convinced that Will would snap and cause himself harm at any moment.

 

“I think you're covering for somebody,” Jack said, “not about the GP not about burying Boyle. But we both know who killed him.”

 

“Do we?” Will said flatly.

 

“Your conviction was light because you're pregnant,” Jack said, “you were compromised by a very dangerous illness, that's reasonable from my perspective but what isn't reasonable is why you would want to take the rap for something you didn't do.”

 

“Stop pretending I'm not what I am,” Will said.

 

“I don't understand you,” Jack said, he sounded like he was on the verge of a breakdown himself, “Who exactly are you protecting? Abigail Hobbs or someone else?”

 

Will had remembered and recalled more about Abigail than any other person when he had first regained consciousness. He had asked after her before anybody else, convinced she had been in danger though he couldn't recall why. He still had an unshakable feeling that Abigail was in peril, though from who or what he couldn't say. Maybe it was from himself.

 

“The evidence they found supported my statements,” Will said, “enough to press charges.”

 

“I look at you and I don't see a killer,” Jack said, “I see someone put to ruin. What I'm trying to understand is who would do this to you, why they would push you to this.”

 

 _Self inflicted injury_ , was the diagnoses. That he had somehow been so damaged mentally he had tried to end his pain with a metal nail file to the face, thinking it the source of his discomfort in the confusion. It wasn't quite a suicide attempt, the cause was more oblique. The only memory Will had of the incident was the look on Hannibal's face after he had done it to himself; the mix of surprise, shock, pity.

 

“I wish I knew,” Will said, “I don't know which memories to trust, I barely knew what was real when it was happening.”

 

“You were convinced Budge was chasing you,” Jack said.

 

“Yes,” Will said, “I remember that. He was so real, he looked so real standing in my kitchen. He even fed my dogs.”

 

No concepts of what Will had thought Budge said to him remained. But the picture was so clear, the evening light dappling across his face as he watched Will grow sicker, weaker and smiled with amusement at his pain.

 

“There was no evidence of Budge.” Jack said, “or any other person in your home other than agent Zeller and Hannibal Lecter who arrived at the same time to help look for you. Do you remember anything, anything at all about what happened over that three day period? Perhaps you saw Budge, maybe you were threatened by him or the copycat or someone like him, I have to know before I can close that investigation.”

 

Will found Jack's insistence alarming.

 

“Did you find evidence of someone else?” Will said.

 

“I'm not at liberty to say but anything you remember will help us define the issue,” Jack said.

 

Jack wants to know if Will murdered the GP as a panic response to hiding Abigail's guilt in Nick Boyle's death or if he had instead been a witness to some terrible event his subconscious mind couldn't recall. Will had become familiar with the events pieced together from the investigation as he had been allowed under conditional circumstances to peruse them so he could recall any evidence concerning the crimes.

 

“I tried to sexually assault Zeller,” Will said, “in the car. That's all I can remember.”

 

Jack looked surprised, Zeller had apparently spun an entirely different story.

 

“He was the last person you saw,” Jack said, “before your GP went missing? What happened after?”

 

Will said, “I don't remember anything besides trying to strangle him into submission. I was thinking like Cheryl White, I don't remember what was the trigger. He may have defended himself or hauled me out of the car, I don't know. I don't even remember seeing a doctor.”

 

There is a cold and creeping silence that stretches in the 'family room' they had been granted.

 

“Do you think you're capable of doing something like that again?” Jack asked.

 

“I don't know what I'm capable of,” Will said, truthfully, “and that scares me more than anything else.”

 

“I believe the copycat is targeting you,” Jack said, “In fact, I believe he's targeting both you and Abigail Hobbs. I'm not saying this to work you up but to keep you aware. If this case opens up again we may have to come back to you whether you're ready or not.”

 

“There hasn't been any copycat activity since I've been here, who's to say it wasn't me,” Will said bitterly.

 

Jack's gaze darkened and Will was suddenly aware that something else had happened that the FBI wasn't allowing into public record.

 

“You are not the copycat,” Jack said, “I know that for certain now.”

 

“Was there another murder?” Will asked breathlessly.

 

Jack was not at liberty to say but the tightening of his mouth and the grim cast to his expression told Will that he was aching to tell him more but wasn't permitted. He was still dependant on Will in some ways, it would be a harsh adjustment without him on the team.

 

Jack sighed, heavily, “I know it's been difficult but I'm still your friend Will, I'm on your side. I want answers the same way you do. Get some rest, you've got a baby to look after.”

 

The nurse tapped on the door.

 

“Time's up agent Crawford,” she said.

 

It wasn't as though Will lacked time to think on these new revelations. He wasn't being sent to Chilton's house of horrors but he wasn't under any illusions what guardianship meant, it was simply a different kind of prison. One with check ins and limited mobility and a constant accompaniment by strangers when his alpha was otherwise occupied. Merciful to those without inclinations to go far from home, without ambitions. A brush under the rug by the FBI that was representative of their hopes for his story to die in obscurity.

 

The day Will was released from the psychiatric hospital it was sunny and bright, the long wet spring having finally been broken by a sudden onset of warm weather. Hannibal was waiting for them in one of his spectacular suits looking polished and hopeful and Will hated him for it, as irrational and cruel as it was. They had shot him up with as much sedative as safely possible and wheeled him out to Hannibal's car. Scent shock was the reason but Will wondered if they weren't still afraid of him, not that he could run or do much of anything without his shins killing him when seven months pregnant.

 

“Good afternoon,” Hannibal said, “are you feeling well?”

 

Will blinked the sun from his eyes, the sedatives moving heavy in his blood. He managed a sluggish nod.

 

“A bit much,” Hannibal said pointedly to the orderly, “don't you think?”

 

“Doctor's orders,” was the icy reply.

 

They managed to load him into the car before he passed out from sheer exhaustion. When Will came to they were well on their way, the city a welcome reprieve from the miserable plainness of an institutional parking lot. Hungrily he took in the sights, the streets he had driven on his own months before. Some shops had been damaged by the flooding and their windows were boarded up, the contents strewn across their front yards for insurance assessment. The sun passed over the SUV flickering through the familiar stone buildings.

 

“Tell me why I'm not in prison right now,” Will said, as he blinked in the dappled light.

 

The classical music playing on the radio made him drowsy but he fought it. He wanted to remain awake to see where he was going, where he'd end up.

 

“The FBI reached a settlement. The publicity was so poor they wanted the situation controlled as quickly as possible,” Hannibal said.

 

“So the lawyers mutually jumped on the opportunity,” Will said, “What about Jack? Alana said she was filing a report.”

 

“I can't say how this will play out for him. I asked Alana to refrain from filing but you know how difficult she can be,” Hannibal said, “I fear Jack's friends have run out and I'm unsure if the FBI will be friendly to Alana's insinuations.”

 

“It's not a friendly place,” Will said, “for all its protections the bureau protects itself first.”

 

“And yet,” Hannibal said, “you still became a consultant.”

 

“I could handle it,” Will said, then winced, “thought I could handle it.”

 

“They may circle back to your involvement in the investigations,” Hannibal said, “it's my responsibility to prevent that and Alana's too. I have arranged for a different psychiatrist, someone I know and that I can trust who won't buckle if there happens to be a scandal.”

 

Will was taken aback, “who are they, do I even know them?”

 

“It's in our favour that they do know you, though obliquely. They're a colleague of mine, Dr. Du Maurier,” Hannibal said, “She has experience with patience who have exhibited violent behaviour in the past. Alana has signed off on her involvement.”

 

That was Will's life now, a series of decisions he had little control over. Decisions made by higher ups like friends and family. What tiny smattering he had left.

 

“Do I get to weigh in,” Will asked bitterly, “on anything?”

 

“Very little I'm afraid,” Hannibal replied, “for the time being. You're my dependant Will, I take that responsibility very seriously.”

 

The drive was long and the lights of Baltimore disappeared to give way to a forest within the city limits, dark trees dimmed the skyline and crept ever higher until it was as though they were heading into deep woods and not towards a genteel lake house. Will felt comforted by their sentinel presence despite his unease. The trees that had provided him with so much freedom in the past had now become his prison guards, their evergreen boughs might as well have been the bent wires of a birdcage. And yet, it would be as difficult for anyone to reach him through their bony fingers as it was for him to reach out.

 

'We've arrived,” Hannibal said, shaking Will out of his reverie.

 

The house was not some lavish monstrosity that Will had assumed would qualify as Hannibal's vacation home. It was large but modest, a little too modern for Will's taste which ran to the rustic but not so extreme it looked uncomfortable. The driveway was long and shrouded by more evergreens, there was a light on at the front of the house. When Will got out of the car he could hear lapping water from far away. Like a bolt to the face, scent shock took over and he found himself disoriented. Barely able to keep himself upright as the dizziness overwhelmed him. Hannibal came to his side and took hold of his arm. After a few deep breaths near his alpha (words he'd never thought he'd be thinking, considering) it abated. The outdoors was a distinct reminder that Will's mobility was still limited. He longed to fish so he could put everything behind him but it didn't seem like it would be part of his reality for a while.

It was a good thing he'd never lacked imagination.

 

Arm in arm they made it through the front door and Will's misery lifted. Walking through a front door was something he had never thought he would do again for a long time, unless it involved the gray walls of an institution but he had been wrong and instead was faced with the full brunt of Hannibal's generosity. It was a beautiful house, too much for Will's simple needs but understated in its own way, something he could feel comfortable in. There were brown boxes all over the living room, neatly stacked and taped with 'FBI EVIDENCE' stamped across their sides.

 

“After the investigation ceased,” Hannibal said, “I retrieved what hadn't been consumed during the search for evidence. I'm afraid the fly fishing kit wasn't possible to save but I could get you another.”

 

Will silently looked at the boxes, the neat disorder that they created and the crates and square, plain wrapped rectangles he was now sure were the pictures he had collected for his house. He moved forward from the open living room to see the large french windows flanked by empty bookshelves and the vista they looked over. The mist receded in all directions billowing against the glass and embraced the edge of the lake and the back of the house like an endless grey ocean. Will sucked in a breath; the house was his boat once more, his illusion of safety.

 

“I can't be grateful right now,” Will said, “but this-”

 

He teared up, he was strangled by frustration.

 

“I really appreciate it,” he finished.

 

“Hello Dr. Lecter,” a woman's voice spoke, “and Mr. Graham.”

 

The housekeeper was more than what she seemed as her powerful build and cool demeanour attested.

 

“I'm Madelaine,” she said, her accent made Will think of Romania and Bela Lugosi but he doubted she was related to either, “Dr. Lecter hired me to help around the house and to help you adjust.”

 

She was built like a line backer, heavily muscled, her skin olive in complexion and her eyes extremely intelligent. A tidy, short hair cut emphasized her pleasant face without hiding her toughness. Will wondered if she had been a prison guard or medical ward security.

 

“I had to consider the demands set by the trial,” Hannibal said to Will, “they wanted a state representative but a negotiation was made concerning an approval process.”

 

Madelaine smiled demurely, “it's an honour Doctor.”

 

There was a history and respect between them, Will wondered what their story had been. The beta woman had been chosen for her speciality that much was clear.

 

“She's here to help you,” Hannibal said, “and to help you feel more secure.”

 

“In case I lose my mind,” Will said.

 

Hannibal nodded, “In essence.”

 

“I hope you know what you're in for,” he said to Madelaine.

 

To her credit, she said nothing back. Merely looked to Hannibal for confirmation.

 

“That will be all Madelaine,” he said, “Will and I would like to talk, alone.”

 

Will could see his own reflection in the long windows, the scar across his nose healing but still lurid and ugly against his pale skin. He gave in to the urge to touch his swollen stomach, the reflection of his hand against his middle more alarming than any scars.

 

“You held my hand during the plasmapherisis,” Will said, “I didn't thank you.”

 

Will could hear a slight sigh come from Hannibal, a little weary.

 

“I wish it hadn't come to this,” Hannibal said, “And for that I'm sorry.”

 

“Forget it,” Will snapped, “I don't take - _hospitality_ with grace.”

 

“There is a chance,” Hannibal said, “A good one that your sentence can be repealed after some time has passed. That some of your freedoms can be restored.”

 

“That it can all go away,” Will said, morosely, “one part of this isn't going away, ever.”

 

Hannibal's reflection grew larger in the window, its shape wavering as he stepped closer. His hand covered Will's that rested over his stomach. Will fought back the instinct to bare his throat, it was too intimate and the ease he had begun to feel towards their relationship months ago had been soured.

 

“What am I going to tell them,” Will said, “Mom was a murderer? A borderline psychopath?”

 

“A troubled man,” Hannibal said, “who grew less troubled with help from family and friends.”

 

“That,” Will said, glaring at his own reflection,“is probably a lie.”

 

The new psychiatrist wasn't someone Will would have ever picked for himself. Too cool and calm and a bit above it all, very much like Hannibal himself or at least, Will's first impression. After some time that impression had changed but it seemed Dr. Du Maurier wasn't as soft as her predecessor. She was open and honest in a brutal way Will could appreciate after months of being handled with kid gloves by fumbling, well meaning souls at the institution who were used to dealing with the stressed out rich. The sessions in his new home were at least to the point. 

 

“It seems that you're afraid the triggers for your violence are inaccessible,” DuMaurier said.

 

“I don't remember anything,” Will said, “not even what was going through my head when it happened. At the hospital they'd knock me out with benzos and hard sedatives when I became...agitated.”

 

Blurred crazed memories filled his head, he remembered at the height of his delusions the hospital turning sinister. The world around him changing. The first time had happened when Hannibal had touched his cheek before the trial but for the life of him he couldn't remember what awful memory that had dredged up. He had knocked over furniture screaming about murderers. What he remembered most were the nurses struggling to restrain him while respecting that he was pregnant, despite his best intents to wreck the visitor's room. He'd had the bruises on his arms for weeks and had spent a day in restraints that had reminded him far too much of his first stint in psychiatric care.

 

“The sedatives have been reduced and you're still calm,” she said.

 

“But for how long,” Will said, “Chemical restraints are not a solution. Whatever the encephalitis left behind is probably permanent damage.”

 

He'd fixate on the meat served at dinner time, on the pattern of a blanket left in the visitor's lounge and something would well up from the darkness inside of his head and shut him down. If this had been the path burned by the combination of his encephalitis and the rupturing of his gland the cure had indeed appeared worse than the disease.

 

“Did your neurologist tell you that?” she said.

 

“In greater words,” Will said, “the pathways it burned into my head through the infection are erratic and unpredictable. Even with EEG and MRI scans they have no way to tell exactly how it effected me or what will come back. What won't.”

 

“The amnesia,” Du Maurier said, “is possibly self inflicted. There may be something that you don't want to remember.”

 

“What would be so terrible,” Will said, “that I wouldn't want the truth?”

 

Dr. Du Maurier regarded him with compassion. Will found her interesting for this one reason; she wasn't afraid of him the way his other doctors had been.

 

“Though it seems grim, you may not be able to recapture the life you had,” she said, “but you are ultimately capable of finding peace in a new one.”

 

“A disability can be overcome,” Will reminded her, “but the violence won't go away so easily.”

 

“I'm concerned by your desperate need to assign yourself guilt,” she said, “you were sentenced and your punishment deemed by the courts to fit the crime. People have gotten far less for worse crimes without the added injuries.”

 

“They've gotten far more for less,” Will said bitingly, “I took lives Doctor, even while acting under a delusional state of mind, that's not a small thing. I don't want a repeat.”

 

“I notice you refuse to attach a number to that statement,” she replied, “as though you believe the number to be contested.”

 

“It could be,” Will said, “I don't know about it yet. Jack insinuated there were other mitigating factors to the case but he couldn't tell me what.”

 

Will realized what he had done just after saying it; implied that Jack would come to him for help again. He grit his teeth in frustration, he could not let it go. He wondered if he would ever let it go. What could have been.

 

“What would my current diagnosis be,” Will asked, “no one is being honest with me right now and that puts me on edge. More than usual.”

 

His gaze bore down on Dr. Du Maurier and she looked at him with a cool placidity that he knew had been an incredibly difficult art to master.

 

“I would say that you suffer from chronic PTSD, obsessive moralizing of incidental behaviour, depression and unresolved physiological and psychological trauma,” she said curtly.

 

Will couldn't help it, he laughed.

 

“That's the most honest thing I've heard in months,” he said, “thank-you.”

 

Her mouth quirked, “you're welcome. Keep in mind that these are all conditions that can be treated, you're not a terminal case Will. You can go on to have a fulfilling life within the boundaries that have been set for you.”

 

Will's laughter died.

 

“I don't do well with boundaries,” he said.

 

“You'll have someone else soon who will need them,” she said, “it's something to work towards.”

 

A staggering, swelling fear gnawed at him.

 

“They'll take the baby away if I'm unfit,” Will said, “I don't want that to happen.”

 

His psychiatrist allowed herself a small half smile to skitter across her face.

 

Dr. DuMaurier said, “that it is part of the criteria I'm obligated to consider during these sessions. As it stands, you have support and though it might not feel like it, your condition is improving.”

 

They were pipe dreams in the closed system of his reality, no matter how confident she was.

 

“What if I can't stop the violence,” Will said, “what will happen then?”

 

Hospital visits dwindled to the ultrasounds checking on the growth of his baby. No developmental problems had appeared and the fetus was healthy despite the incredible number of medications Will had been on since his incarceration. The gender had been a surprise, an omega boy. In the back of Will's mind he recalled his father complaining that his mother's family had 'a history' of omega boys, that he had wanted an alpha son but had known that wouldn't be the case. Perhaps Will had inherited the same predilection. He would only know if he had more, a thought very far from his mind after the blood and trauma surrounding the first one.

 

Alana did stop by just as she had promised. She had Winston with her, his sad eyes landing on Will almost immediately before they lit up and he bounded towards him. He knocked over a pile of his books with his tail and promptly rolled all over the couch Will had set up as his own in the living room. It was glorious how much dog hair he had supplanted onto its surface in only a few minutes. It made Will smile.

 

“I'm attempting to convince Hannibal a dog would be good company for you,” she said, “And besides now that Winston actually knows where you are, I wouldn't be surprised if you got a visitor. The others are adjusting but Winston was looking for you constantly. Kept digging up the hydrangeas to get under the house.”

 

“Would rather he didn't,” Will said, scratching the dog under the chin, “it's a long way from your place to here.”

 

Winston looked like he was in doggy heaven and made soft pleased grumbling sounds as Will scratched and rubbed him, indulging in his comforting dog smell and furriness.

 

“Do you have a name picked out yet?” Alana asked.

 

Will scoffed. It had been a bone of contention for a while.

 

“He kept choosing v's they all sound like super-villain names,” Will said, “Valdemeras isn't a name any child should have,”

 

“Oof,” Alana said, “that is heavy. What was your suggestion?”

 

Will looked up at Alana who was dressed in a dark blue wrap dress her dark hair spilling around her pale face. The dress was beautiful, the colour of the deep ocean. Will darted his eyes away but it was too late, he had already memorized the afternoon light falling across her thighs and the softness of her form. The desire in her eyes as she looked at him, as though _she liked him like this_ , so helpless without her.

 

“Micheal,” Will said, “But that was outright vetoed. Too pedestrian.”

 

Alana laughed, “did he really say that?”

 

“Insinuated,” Will said grumpily, “it wasn't special snowflake enough.”

 

“Maybe between the two of you,” Alana said, “you can find something that both honours Hannibal's Lithuanian roots and satisfies your need for a name that's normal enough to actually fit a child.”

 

“Maybe by the time they're in high school,” Will said, “but a compromise is possible”

 

“And did you reach one?” Alana asked.

 

“Valdas Matthew Lecter,” Will said, “tentatively. I figure the kid can make up his own mind what he goes by in school. I for one, will be calling him Mattie.”

 

“The surname surprises me,” Alana said.

 

“Less likely to turn up anything through google that way,” Will said, “the less attachment to me, the better.”

 

“You may feel different when you get to know them,” Alana said.

 

“I still haven't decided if I'm keeping them exclusively,” Will said.

 

“Have you talked this through with Hannibal?” Alana asked.

 

Will said nothing. There were some things he wanted to decide on his own, the few that he still had some control over.

 

“You should talk,” Alana said, “this might not be what you want to hear right now but he cares about you and your child very deeply. He has incredible hope you'll recover.”

 

“Glad someone does,” was all Will said while stroking Winstons' head.

 

Being viewed through the nonjudgmental eyes of a dog was a relief, Winston didn't care about the why's and wherefores only that his master was holding him when previously he hadn't been.

 

“Are you afraid of remembering?” Alana asked him.

 

Will blinked away the burning sensation behind his eyes.

 

“I'm afraid,” Will said, “that I'll remember something so poisonous that I can't in good conscious keep this baby.”

 

“No one's made any move to take him away,” Alana said.

 

“But for how long,” Will said, as he smiled bitterly.

 

As Will's sedatives were down graded his dreams returned. Slowly images began to appear in his night time sleep that were a strange contusion of his waking world, his old world and the new world he found himself in. He often dreamed that his old house had been burning while he watched, too far away to do anything about it but look on as the timbers collapsed into glowing embers. Other times he was fishing at night in the forest his fly cast going long, long into the darkness to a place he couldn't see. Finally, he would dream of the stag that had followed him from his nightmares, its dark eyes glowing with the light from his burning house and its noble posture undisturbed by the crackling sound of the flames reaching higher.

 

That dream always ended the same. He would stand facing the stag completely nude but unashamed, physical indications of his pregnancy vanished. He knew his baby was safe but the comforting bulge was no longer there to remind him. Behind him his house would be burning but it seemed unimportant in the face of revelations that his conscious mind couldn't grasp. What was in front of him was much more important, more dangerous. The stag would lunge towards him, its teeth burying itself in his neck and he would wake up in a cold sweat, aroused but also sickened by a fear he couldn't place.

 

“Desire has caused you a great deal of pain in the past,” Hannibal brushed his hand against Will's cheek after he put down his plate, “it's natural to feel conflicted.”

 

The food was beautiful, it always was. He didn't know how Hannibal had the energy to make meals like this when he was travelling back and forth between his practice and the house Will had come to know as his own. It wasn't as though Hannibal was around Will full time as he had begun tidying his obligations in anticipation of paternity leave, they both were isolated people that needed their space. Unfortunately due to Will's circumstance he was often sharing his with Madelaine when Hannibal was indisposed or delayed because of work or other social functions. Alana also shared the responsibility and would drop by with a car load of dogs and cloying kindness that left will feeling sticky and grateful in more ways than one.

 

“I'm not used to these feelings,” Will ground out in between bites, “they aren't natural for me.”

 

The salad had sweet fruit in it, some berry he had never heard of before. The sauce was also on the sweet side as Hannibal had picked up on Will's sudden and inexplicable sweet tooth. He'd never cared about sugars before but he should have known that his infant would have other ideas concerning what was palatable and what wasn't. He doubted the diner steaks and fries he had enjoyed previously would hold up.

 

“Feeling attraction to Alana Bloom is entirely natural,” Hannibal said bemused.

 

Will grunted, he wouldn't deny it. It would be stupid. He was an omega, Alana was a beta it was natural for them both to find comfort in each other's company especially since Will was pregnant, though he knew that wasn't at the forefront of her motivations. They had something before...a potential that had gone unrealized. What Will did find embarrassing was his inability to push that attraction away, he probably smelled of it with his hormones so high and sweet from an eight month pregnancy. He felt huge and ungainly, not very attractive but he knew Alana still thought so because she'd flush a bit across her lovely pale cheeks and look anywhere but at his face, usually at his swollen stomach. She wasn't avoiding his scars anymore, she was accepting them. Maybe even arriving at an attraction to them. When he was alone with his thoughts his mind would follow a base fantasy he felt helpless to control, he would think about her hands on his stomach reverently, the sigh of her lips against his. The flush of their bodies while nude. Her breasts heaving under his hands and his desire but inability to penetrate her. He was a bit too pregnant to provide a sufficient erection but he certainly thought about it revelling in the impossibility of dreams. He imagined her breasts growing larger as they spent more time together, that like most beta women who were in sexual relationships with pregnant omegas, she would begin to lactate for his baby. They'd feed his child together in a warm cocoon created between their heated bodies.

 

It took a great deal of effort to blink away the fantasy.

 

“Neither of us have been particularly family oriented until now,” Hannibal said, “perhaps your body is telling you change is inevitable.”

 

Will sputtered, “you're giving blessings for me to fool around with a state approved guardian?”

 

“Technically I'm your primary guardian,” Hannibal said.

 

“That doesn't matter,” Will said, “it's still pretty close to unethical.”

 

Will scraped his fork across his plate, gathering up the last dregs of his meal. A light coloured pork shoulder doused in the sweet, red apple sauce. The meat was so tender, Will suppressed a groan when it melted on his tongue. Institutional food had sensitized him to the miracles of Hannibal's cooking, everything was a riot of flavors compared to the bland paste he had eaten while he was incarcerated. Though there was something...his lizard brain was still insisting everything about this place wasn't to be trusted. It was a best case scenario, almost like a dream. Will was ever waiting for the nightmare to start.

 

“Only if anyone finds out,” Hannibal said, “I doubt Dr. Bloom would be advertising her romantic inclinations around Georgetown. My primary concern is your comfort. If she were an alpha the situation would be entirely different.”

 

Will snorted, “no kidding.”

 

Alphas and their pissing contests, it was the law of the land. Their omegas weren't shared with the same freedom as with betas but that didn't stop cheating from happening. Male betas could even get omegas pregnant if they got there soon after their heats. It was considered hearsay and rumour until enough paternity cases became evident as DNA testing caught on with the general public. It wasn't as though an alpha would have advertised his kid looked nothing like him, a definite faux pas in decent company. Will had stayed well away from beta men, though it was a slim chance, he hadn't wanted the risk with a possible pregnancy while on birth control or not. So much of his life had been about damage control before variables hit, maybe it wasn't surprising that everything had gone so wrong.

 

Hannibal who sat across from him turned his head curiously.

 

“What are you thinking about?” he asked.

 

“Entropy,” Will said.

 

Hannibal's mouth quirked, “part of a very natural cycle. The next is renewal.”

 

“Plants grow out of cow crap,” Will said, “bodies turn into green grass, life begins anew.”

 

“Your life,” Hannibal said, “and that of another.”

 

Will nodded and felt the pain beginning at his temples, spreading into his skull along his jaw. The bad thing about coming off opiates was how hyper sensitive his body had become to discomfort.

 

“I don't want to lose him,” Will said.

 

“You won't,” Hannibal said.

 

“Yeah?” Will said, “I'm not so sure. All it takes is one call.”

 

“Dr. Du Maurier may be sad to learn that you have no faith in her judgement,” Hannibal said.

 

“I have faith in her capabilities,” Will said, “I don't know if I can keep to my half of the bargain.”

 

“There are checks and balances in place,” Hannibal said, “the court has deemed you curable.”

 

Will scoffed, “the FBI wanted a deal and you took it.”

 

“And it has benefited the both of us,” Hannibal said, “finish your meal. I'll read to you after.”

 

“This is what life is now,” Will said bitterly, “naps and readings? Preschool with a rap sheet.”

 

“And renewal,” Hannibal said, “in good time.”

 

Will scraped his fork across his plate. He looked out the large picture windows passed the books that had begun to surround the couch and his pictures he had hung on the wall. The evening was foggy with a blood red sunset peeking around the edges, it was beautiful but something about it unsettled him.

 

 _Hidden meanings_ , Will thought, _memories defined by a diseased brain_.

 

Boredom ultimately became Will's worst enemy, he had four weeks until his due date and little to do. Will made a frustrated sound as he reclined on the chesterfield with a book dangling from his fingers. He had made small mountains around the couch out of books, magazines, periodicals, several electronic readers (Hannibal had tried them all and preferred good old fashioned paper, or so he'd said, as he'd handed a stack of miraculously shiny looking 'nooks' and e-readers and other things Will had only seen in his student's hands before now) anything to keep him entertained. The windows seemed huge from a low vantage point, the wide open woods embraced in fog that rolled in from the cold lake until the earth and sky were almost the same colour. Will's head drooped, his eyes getting heavy. The book fell from his fingers and hit the ground, barely noticed.

 

He could see his house again, as though he were laying on his old threadbare couch. And he could see Hannibal standing over him that strange mixture of pity and surprise. But then the dream changed and everything went dark, twisted the windows of his house opening up like maws filled with sickly sweet magnolias their heady fragrance turning the air thick with rot. And Hannibal stood above him, a stag man with hollow eyes his triumphant dripping grin bearing down on Will. In his hand was the instrument of Will's undoing, a slim metal piece that dripped with blood.

 

Will snapped awake.

 

“Madelaine?” he questioned from the couch.

 

She must have gone upstairs to fold laundry as she often did late afternoons when Will was heavy with sleep and sedatives. If he hadn't been nine months pregnant he would have leaped from the couch. Instead it was a slow ascension Will managed to stand upright and quietly moved over to the kitchen. The house was open concept, there was only a half wall separating the living room from the dining room to make things less confusing for Will's sensitive nose to sort out. Instead Will began to see it as something else, like a goldfish bowl. A perfect set up to watch. Were there cameras, he wondered? Or was everything simply as open as the apparent transparency of his unconventional psychiatrist. The world was turning sinister and Will remembered the hospital and their eagerness to shoot him so full of sedatives he could barely say his name and he also recalled, crystal and pristine, that everyone was uncomfortable around him. The FBI had called him a psychopath, a murderer, an unfortunate mother to be who had been motivated by maternal urges to murder anyone threatening his surrogate daughter and who could say what motivations beyond that. He was insane, incapable of looking after himself. Carefully curated perceptions that left Will utterly isolated without any recourse legal or otherwise.

 

He watches the rain pound heavy outside the windows overlooking the lake and considers his options. If it were just him, he thinks, he would have no qualms recreating an ultimate confrontation using whatever weapons he could find at hand. The knives are naturally locked away as is anything that could be considered remotely dangerous as per the instructions in his sentence. Will has scoured the place when he's felt well enough, there are no guns or anything like a hunting knife in reach but that doesn't mean Hannibal doesn't have a stack of them buried somewhere in a spot Will hasn't found yet. There is a certain aura about him that screams 'well prepared'. And though it may seem sinister to some, even before Will felt there had been something not quite right with Hannibal's nature, he knew the man dealt with patients who were at worst explosive and at best the troubled rich. No one like Hannibal went to a battle field unarmed. Will had been certain even when he had sat peacefully in Hannibal's blood red office that in the closed front cabinets and deep recesses of the mahogany drawers there had been weapons waiting for a skilled hand to pick them up. Be they medicinal chemical restraints or otherwise. It had actually made him feel safer at the time, if he had snapped and become the killer of his nightmares his closest friend would have a fighting chance. But what had he known about anything...at the time.

 

He could slide the can opener from the utensil drawer and break windows, the faces of his pursuers. If he had to, he could down Madelaine with one well placed swipe and make his escape. But at nine months pregnant and just shy of his due date it would be an utterly foolhardy thing to attempt. He knows that patience is a virtue and at the moment even while his fear is running so high his mind is literally screaming at him to _run run run_ nothing would be accomplished if he were to give in to the desire.

 

And above all, Will still required the burden of proof.

 

What exactly he was looking for he wasn't sure. But the terrible beating in his heart told him that Hannibal was a monster. Something to be feared. He had done this to him in some way, even if Will had murdered he wouldn't have done it without deep, physical and mental distress. He knew himself. He wasn't crazy.

 

“I'm not insane,” he whispered to his own reflection in the glass.

 

“Will,” Madelaine said, “are you all right?”

 

Will shook his head, “yes.”

 

She could see his face in the glass, the sinister cast to his tight jaw.

 

“I'll get you something,” she said, “to help you relax.”

 

He acquiesced. He sat on the couch and watched her deliver the injection into his right arm professionally and carefully. The sedatives flooded through his brain and though he was much more relaxed his mind wasn't hazy. It felt sharp and clear. He could see himself reflected in the window and the carefully constructed world around him. Birds smashed into windows because they didn't see the barriers, Will could see the barriers. He knew they were there. He could eventually break through. He closed his eyes.

 

In his head he saw Hannibal's dining table covered in fruit and carcasses their beauty only marred by the rot inside. Beneath the crisp coated flesh and soft crushed pomegranates there was something slithering, waiting. Something dark. The creature from his nightmares. And he knew until he went deep enough, it would never be brought into the light.

 

It would soon be time to dig.

 

 

 


End file.
